


Champion of the Divine

by CourierNinetyTwo, QuickYoke



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-03-08 05:01:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3196286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CourierNinetyTwo/pseuds/CourierNinetyTwo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickYoke/pseuds/QuickYoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Leliana is ordained as Divine Victoria, Cassandra suffers a crisis of faith that threatens to destroy them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically, this story is an AU, but the reason for why will become more apparent further on.

They were the largest private quarters Leliana had ever owned, and this was after she had declined taking the grandest of the apartments in Val Royeaux. Her Chief of Staff — a plump, red-faced woman with a sharp eye for detail and a sharper tongue — had scowled furiously when Leliana had declined such ostentation. She had even tried to coerce Leliana into accepting the quarters for political reasons, only to shut her mouth with a snap when Leliana gave her a dark, dangerous look.

Now Leliana sighed at the memory, feeling a small pang of guilt swoop low in her chest. It was often difficult, tamping down the urge to fall back into old habits. The past haunted her, memories of Marjolaine and the Hero of Ferelden, both hard as tempered steel in their own way, pushing, pulling. Sometimes she swore she could even feel echoes of a lost twisted future. The Inquisitor ordering her to let Felix go, insisting his innocence, Alexius’ shriek of rage and loss, the words on her lips, “No one is innocent.”

Leliana shook her head clear of such thoughts. Now was not the time — today of all days — to brood.

The ceremony was hours away, yet she was already standing in the center of the room swarmed by servants making last minute adjustments to her robes. The headdress loomed nearby, and she thanked the Maker she wasn’t forced to wear it just yet. Her neck would take days to recover. One of the servant girls was already working on pinning her hair back; she winced when a blunt hair pin dug into her scalp.

“You will wait in the atrium after descending from your palanquin,” Mother Gisele was reading from a list for what felt like the hundredth time, schooling her on every last detail of the coronation, “I’ll be in the back, so you’ll have to watch for your cue to enter. And remember: don’t walk too quickly.”

Leliana’s arms were starting to ache from holding them up for so long, “Walking too quickly is the least of my worries,” she sighed.

Mother Gisele gave her an appraising look, then waved the servants away. When they were given a little privacy, she leaned in and asked softly, “Are you absolutely sure about making a reform so soon, Your Perfection?”

“They need to know I will not hesitate to make changes where needed,” Leliana replied, rolling her shoulders and feeling surprisingly self-assured, “If not now: when? Why would I risk looking weak and deferential while waiting for a ruler’s approval?”

“Spoken like a true Divine,” Mother Gisele said without a hint of sarcasm, “You will do very well, I think. Just be sure you do not lose yourself too much in politics, Most Holy. Faith is the essence of your cause.”

Leliana hummed a wordless agreement, “There have been times when I thought faith was lost. When I first visited the Temple of Sacred Ashes and the Hero of Ferelden poisoned Andraste’s ashes, I fought, and I died at her hand.”

She gazed into the distance, contemplative, “In that instant, I felt the Maker’s presence grow cold. One moment a cherished child, the next… abandoned. But that is not so anymore. Especially not now. Isn’t it odd,” she turned to Mother Gisele with a small smile, “that I should feel like a girl again. Now of all times I am reminded of the faith I had as a child, simple and untouched.”

Bowing her head, Mother Gisele replied, “Cleave to that faith, Your Perfection. Allow it to guide you like a light in your darkest hours.”

“Any other advice for me before my big moment?” Leliana asked, plucking at a few loose gold threads on her voluminous sleeves. She would have to call the servants back in to finish their work momentarily.

Mother Gisele gave her a thoughtful once-over, then said seriously, “Don’t trip on the steps in front of everyone.”

Leliana laughed.

 

—

 

Cassandra’s fingers traced the vellum of the map over and over, charting a course. While it was far from the first time she had planned a procession, marked the way along landmarks and capitals, villages and temples of note, this was different. The tiny golden chariot symbolizing the Divine’s passage could be moved with ease through Orlais, bounding along the Imperial Highway, be it north or east. Nevarra — as much as it pained her, that was a possibility. No one would question a Pentaghast’s presence there, much less when they heard the rest of her name.

A silver soldier served as Victoria’s accompaniment, and it was that small figure Cassandra drew to the side, away from the chariot, only for her fingers to fumble and knock them both over. Cursing under her breath, she reset them beside one another, angled towards Val Royeux. The leaden state of her hands, the weight that rose up like a wave and tried to crush her heart, eased away, but with relief came the warm flush of anger, and she slammed one fist down against the table, rattling an empty cup placed on the edge. It tipped back and forth before settling, the bottom jostled to just shy of falling.

The pieces on the map remained still, lodged in their proper place. Her proper place.

It was half a blessing that she hadn’t gouged the map itself, with the slight sting radiating through her knuckles, but the faded sepia ink provided the same untouched path as before, winding along coasts and mountainsides. There the Divine would go,  _there_  she would follow. No one but Inquisitor Adaar knew she had been named Right Hand again; the news wouldn’t flow freely until the coronation — the coronation being woven into existence on the floors below with cloth-of-gold and smoking censers, relics and tools of office worth a thousand times more than most citizens of Orlais would ever see.

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t accepted the rank again willingly, hadn’t knelt and pressed her brow to Leliana’s offered hand, swearing that it would be her honor to help set things right again within the Chantry. No, it was the fact that once she had accepted, something restless ignited in her blood, chased away sleep and left only fragmented dreams in its place. Calling them dreams may have been wrong, perhaps, because Cassandra knew them within and without, knew Lucius’ voice as he defamed the Seekers, could taste the blood dripping down her cheek when he lashed out at her, when the blow she returned slashed right above his gorget, split vein and artery alike open to the air. They were memories relived, over and over.

Even the less violent ones remained haunting. In some, it was simply pages from the Book of Secrets playing through her thoughts, fraying every ounce of trust she poured into the Seekers’ rites and rituals, reflected on the face of every Tranquil who crossed her path serving the Inquisition. Cassandra had never considered them lesser so much as proof that all those created by the Maker could be flawed, tempted, and felt utmost regret that magic could not be harnessed as easily as so many prayed. Was it pride or weakness that was extinguished when she held her vigil, became an empty vessel after a year of trials? Had anything actually changed at all?

Mages were harrowed, Seekers were purified. What a world of difference the word could make, when one was enclosed in a circle and the other was told they were pursuing the highest of callings, and yet, no one had divulged the secret. Locked behind private texts, whispered between monarchs, but never given to the public. Sometimes it threatened to bubble up in her throat, burn her tongue with the urge to shout — what did it mean for the Right Hand to have been cut off from dreams, from emotion, even for a split second? What did it mean that the woman who would be Divine had died at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, only to have breath returned to her lungs as if by providence?

Whether Andraste had blessed Adaar was still a mystery for scholars and faithful alike, but Corypheus had undeniably existed in the flesh, bringing the Herald together with hands both Right and Left, the spectre of Justinia watching over them all. Miracles were called and claimed for less, as were Exalted Marches.

Yet there was no sense of holiness in her hands when she looked down, saw the faint red swell from where the table resisted the strike. Callouses and scars broke up the topography of skin, faint lines of pulse and life, but no hallowed glow gouged her palm, no strength but that which was earned by decades of swinging a blade, bearing a shield. With a clench of her fist, she could set lyrium ablaze, but the ability had always felt like more of a reflex than magic, power written into muscle and sinew.

After all, they had allowed her to practice on a Templar for weeks, a young woman who endured the pain for the Maker’s sake.

Shame welled up in Cassandra’s breast, flickering bright as veilfire. When her eyes focused on the chariot once more, the soldier following faithfully behind, the feeling settled, and she gently cupped the ill-struck hand over the figures, felt a minute silver sword and golden palanquin prod her fingertips.

“You haven’t lost your belief, you know. Not at all.”

The voice startled Cassandra into action, drawing the dagger from the sheath low on her hip, prepared to aim for the intruder’s throat when she recognized watery amber eyes beneath the brow of a ragged hat. Her blade stopped short of Cole’s nose as she sucked in a breath between her teeth, adrenaline making the world sharp, limbs fluid. It waned by the second, making Cassandra’s forearm tremble as she lowered the dagger, slid steel back into worn leather until her fingers were freed from its hilt.

“My request for you to stop appearing in my quarters did not cease when I left Skyhold, Cole.” There was a rasp in her tone, betraying a quickened pulse. Why had he scared her so? Despite the surprise, there was no reason for sense to entirely flee in the spirit’s presence. “How did you get here?”

A foolish question, Cassandra realized a second after the words slipped out, but his answer was a shrug and, “I was invited.”

“Yes, everyone from the Inquisition was invited.” Not all had accepted, but that was another matter entirely. “I meant here in my room, although I suppose  _why_  would be the better thing to ask. The coronation is downstairs.”

“But  _you’re_  not downstairs.” Cole tilted his head, then gestured to her loose tunic. “You’re not even dressed.”

Little point in inquiring how he knew that; Cassandra was sure the truth was plucked from her thoughts, just like everything else. “There’s hours yet.”

“If you don’t show up, she’ll be very disappointed.” Cole said, tone falling low.

“Of course I’m going to show up. I’m her—” She snapped, frowning as soon as the heat of anger vanished. That wasn’t public knowledge to offer aloud, regardless of his abilities or her temper. “—Hers.”

Confusion played across his pale face, expression as open as a child’s. “You were trying to run away. You hurt your hand.”

Only when he said as such did Cassandra glance down at the hand grasping the metal figures tight, saw the pinpricks of blood provoked by the minute sword, the point of the Chantry flag atop the carriage. Laying both down with care, she wiped the drops of red away on a spare bit of oiled-cloth that had torn earlier in the morning while polishing her sword. Her fingers didn’t hurt; the sting was elsewhere.

“I would not break my oath and run from the woman I swore myself to, Cole.” Why not honesty, then, if he would pry it out the same way a healer would an infected splinter from a whining patient. “It’s the fact that I  _can’t_ , even if I wished to do so.”

“But you don’t.” He made a fist, pressed it to his own heart. “I can feel it like a stone here. Heavier than anything you’ve ever carried. Is it because you know it’s there now?”

“Because what’s there now?” Cassandra’s dark brow knit. “I’ve served two Divines before, Cole, the pomp and circumstance are all the same.”

“Not the Divine, the Seekers. Their touch upon your shoulders, what they left behind.” Cole spread his hands wide, framing her body. “It knows you better than you know yourself.”

“Stop spewing nonsense!” The roar returned, seared through her voice. “Why am I different? What changed?”

A stilted knock drew Cassandra’s attention to the door, the sound light but hurried. “Seeker Pentaghast? Can I come in?”

The shift was like a wisp of smoke, a whisper through glass; Cole was gone. Biting back a curse dark enough to profane the halls surrounding her, Cassandra’s shoulders sagged for a moment before she rolled them back, straightened her spine. Regardless of this matter, any number of nights with troubled sleep, she had a duty to perform, and Leliana —  _Victoria_  — needed her to be above reproach.

After pushing the cloth soiled with her blood into the nearby wastebin, Cassandra approached the door, jaw set. She would find Cole later, make him speak plainly. For now, there was armor to don, tradition to bear like a battleflag. In service there was rest, familiarity, and perhaps, a moment’s peace.

 

—

 

Even from the wings, the Grand Cathedral of Val Royeaux was stunning to behold. High above the vaulted ceiling soared spindly columns, and light filtered through windows of colored glass, stained red and gold and imperial blue. At the very head of the nave the Sunburst throne sat, radiant, upon a raised dais draped with scarlet cloth. People crowded and jostled one another in the aisles, craning their necks to see the next Divine on her walk to assume her seat as the head of the Chantry.

Leliana had never worn robes so heavy. Gold plates stamped with Andrastian flames dangled from her chest and threatened to drag her shoulders down. She had to remind herself not for the first time to not rub at her tired eyes lest she smear the heavy crust of paint carefully applied to her face. Instead she blinked the fatigue away, bracing herself with a deep breath. The long procession had been as tiring as the weeks leading up to it: the shuffle of priests in their swaying robes; horses champing at their bit, stamping their shod feet upon the cobblestones; the chevaliers’ crests nodding on their helmed heads; hundreds of streaming banners ensconced in flashing bronze and gold — and there amidst it all, Leliana drowning in stifling robes upon a palanquin of scented wood.  After all this time spent planning and toiling over ceremony, she would be glad to see this day over.

Peering out at all the murmuring people, Leliana had the sudden urgent desire for a mask. The Game had always been a favorite of hers, but that had always been as an agent from the shadows, as a bard or as the nightingale. But bards did not become Divine, and nightingales were locked away in reliquaries. Her earlier optimism expressed to Mother Gisele felt thinned and strained. Faith which had once seemed close enough to taste had shrunk to a single wavering flame. Leliana’s hands clenched into fists and she muttered a few lines of the Chant under her breath.

“Apologies for being late.”

Leliana’s head jerked around, and she reached up to steady the towering headdress. Before she even saw who spoke — how could she not recognize the owner of that distinctive voice? — her face had relaxed into a smile. “It’s about time.”

Cassandra stood resplendent in burnished armor, leaning one palm on the hilt of her sword, crested helm curled under the opposite elbow. Her waist was cinched in rich red cloth, her old armor exchanged for a new suit that flashed silver and gold under the glance of sunlight, yet it remained as practical as ever. When she spoke the drone of the crowd grew distant, fading like the crash of waves upon the shore, “It won’t happen again, Most Holy.”

Eyebrow canting up in amusement at Cassandra’s formality, Leliana said, “Trust me, if we had to do this again I’d probably fling myself from the top of the White Spire.”

Cassandra grunted, but her expression remained stiff and she looked anywhere than at Leliana, “I think I would follow, Most Holy.”

There was a flicker of that dry humor, and Leliana smiled, “Look at me, Cassandra.”

She knew she shouldn’t, knew that if she did she would be swept up, swallowed by the embers smoking in her stomach, but obedience to the Divine was ingrained in her bones now. Thrice given, thrice accepted. Leliana had only to ask, and Cassandra was hers, body and soul. Squaring her jaw, teeth grit tight, she looked up and met Leliana’s gaze. Every clenched muscle uncoiled, quick as a snap of frayed rope. It felt like the first breath of air after a week in the sweltering Deep Roads, cool and fresh and clean as the driven snow. She wanted to sink into it and never re-emerge.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Leliana said, “I don’t think I could do this without you by my side.”

At that admission, Cassandra swallowed thickly. Her gauntlet creaked as she gripped the hilt of her sword. Her voice cracked when she spoke, “You honor me, Most Holy.”

“And we’re going to have a talk about this ‘Most Holy’ business,” Leliana said with faux severity, tapping her finger playfully against Cassandra’s breastplate.

“Yes, Your Perfection.” Cassandra murmured, catching sight of one of the musicians giving them a discrete wave. She nodded to the cue and swung her helm over her head, fastening the ceremonial mask beneath her chin.

Trumpets blared announcing the final mark of the procession, and Leliana just shook her head at Cassandra before they assumed their places. Two young girls dressed all in white walked before Leliana, strewing her path with rose petals like pale feathers. She felt them crinkle and crush beneath her gold-stitched feet like thick-pleated samite. Behind her Cassandra led a cavalcade of dismounted templars, marching all in step, their booted feet resounding loud as an army in the marble sheathed cathedral. Incense trailed their stalks of smoke from the pointed archways, clouding the air above, interrupting the slashes of light in brilliant hues. The crowd, which had been so eager before to press forward for a glimpse of the Divine Victoria, shrank away with a collective inhalation. From the wings of the far beam a chorus set the stones beneath their feet humming with reverent song.

Lifting the robes clear from her feet, Leliana climbed the steps. Before her crouched the empty throne which had supported those before her, a long legacy of women who had been given authority to judge. She allowed her fingers to trail over one of its gilded arms, tracing the sharp patterns there, then turned to face the crowd and lowered herself into the low-slung seat. As one the congregation sank to their knees, and there they remained, heads bowed as though in worship. She gazed across the masses, but her eyes came to rest on the figure at the very fore.

Cassandra’s face was obscured behind her mask, the plate festooned with lavishly detailed repoussé, her eyes a flicker of bright black beneath slits in the metal. She knelt, utterly still, one hand forming a fist that propped upon the floor, the other held over her heart. They waited for the chant to end, the echo of voices clinging to the vaulted ceiling, then Leliana spoke.

“Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast,” Leliana’s words broke, calm and clear, through the silence, “Rise and approach us.”

Without hesitation, Cassandra complied. When she stood before the Sunburst throne, she swept the great helm from her head, unsheathed her sword, and knelt once more at Leliana’s feet. Head bowed, helm placed on the floor, she offered her sword up to the Divine Victoria, where it glinted like a flame.

Leliana grasped it by the hilt and held it over Cassandra’s head, one of its sharp edges angled down, ready to strike, “Do you, Cassandra, take us as your Divine? Do you accept your role as our Right Hand? Do you so swear to trust and honor us, to protect us with your life, today, tomorrow, and forever? Do you so swear to be faithful through tragedy and blessing, so long as you live?”

“I do,” Cassandra rasped.

Looking out over the crowd, Leliana called out, “If there is anyone in this congregation who so objects to this appointment, speak now.” When her words were met with silence, Leliana turned the blade over in her hand, “We are in agreement. You are deemed worthy of our Right Hand. Know, now that you are made our Right Hand, that you must succor the defenseless, seek justice for those of every station, obey us in every capacity, and maintain the honor of your station. Let this blow remind you that our Right Hand shall bring you pain as well as honor.”

With a flick of her wrist she gently struck Cassandra’s shoulder, the twang of metal on metal ringing out like a bell, and the sword shivered up through her arm, “Rise,” Leliana commanded, “and take your place by our side as our sole Hand.”

A confused buzz traveled through the crowd. People turned to whisper furiously to one another, but the two on the dais ignored them. Cassandra stood, and when she took the sword their hands touched, Cassandra’s skin burning even through layers of leather and silverite. Cast in the light of the stained-glass windows, she seemed to glow, eyes like exalted beacons across the rocky sea. Leliana paused at the force of that gaze, of that single shining moment in which Cassandra looked at her like one who looks upon the face of Andraste herself, fierce and awed and ardently devout.

“We shall have no Left Hand,” Leliana said, low and earnest, even as she reached out with her own left hand to cup Cassandra’s face, a warm thrill prickling up through her fingers to her opposite shoulder, “Let it be known the Shadow of the Sunburst Throne is no more.”

Upon her touch, Cassandra’s eyes flared, a flash of keen luminous blue. Leliana sucked in a rapid breath and snatched her hand away as though burned. Her mouth dropped open, but Cassandra was already shoving the helmet back over her head, yanking the mask into place, and moving to stand beside the throne. Leliana steadied herself with one hand on the throne as she sat back down.

A second after she recovered, Empress Celene, Briala and the nobles from court were before her, ready to approach and kneel, one by one. She forced herself to keep from glancing at Cassandra, and convinced herself it was nothing but a trick of the light, a shift through colored glass.


	2. Chapter 2

Sunlight crept through the window, gray with the rising dawn.

A faint breeze jostled the papers on Cassandra’s desk closest to the sill, curtains swaying on either side, to and fro on their brass bar. There was a faint ache low in her back from sitting for so long, the thought of sleep abandoned hours before, and both calves were stiff, still laced tightly into heavy boots. Her inkwell was nearly empty too, the bent nib of a quill alongside it, and the new one was fast approaching dullness as well. Raising her arms in a slow stretch, Cassandra watched pink and orange as they painted the sky, chased by broadening bands of gold.

Nothing. So many days and yet, nothing.

The list in front of her was stained with both ink and oil, ideas cast out with the black scratch of the quill, over and over. Just looking at it stirred up the embers of frustration again, and Cassandra resisted the urge to rend the parchment in two, instead rolling it up tightly and setting it atop the tomes she’d been poring over all night. Dipping the steel nib in what dark drabs remained, she smoothed a new piece of parchment out in front of her, beginning with the names.

_Hawke — dead_. At least, presumed as such, considering the perils of the Fade. Cassandra quietly grimaced at the memory, at the look on Varric’s face when they were forced to flee, to sacrifice the woman who might have been Inquisitor, once upon a time. His friend, a heroine of the small and forgotten in a city of blood no one had cared to keep in check. No one, including herself.

_Warden Mahariel — dead_. A force of destruction that only ended with the Archdemon, yet saving Ferelden in the wake of so much betrayal. Andraste’s ashes besmirched, Leliana — Cassandra wanted to chide herself for the name, but she was Leliana  _then_  — left to die in the heart of a sacred place. The Blight ended with such a particular cost, like the first steps of a trial, a reckoning.

_Anders — missing._  Rogue and beyond anyone’s reach, so far as she was aware. Even after Hawke’s passing, Varric had said nothing of the possessed mage, nor did word of him travel from any part of Thedas. Cassandra’s quill hovered over the name for a long moment, but couldn’t find it in herself to declare him dead. There was no proof but silence, and even if that silence broke, she expected he would rather die than be captured and questioned.

_Wynne — dead_. Leliana had buried her ashes personally. Beyond that, Cassandra wasn’t sure what to note, save for the fact that Rhys had cut off contact with the Inquisition after Corypheus’ destruction. If Evangeline remained with him, no one could say.

_Solas_ — ink dripped onto the final curve of the elf’s name, soaking into the parchment. Wiping off the excess with her fingers, Cassandra growled at the messy smudge. Penmanship had always been dreadfully difficult for her in the first place, letters falling out of alignment, backwards or misplaced, but she’d seen Solas’ flowing hand once, the effortless script, narrow and beautiful yet remarkably simple to read. He had been sending a letter, although refused to say where or to whom.

Something about the memory provoked a fraction of a smile before Cassandra finished the note —  _missing_. Gone without a word to anyone, his absence stark when they all came back together, grateful for the final battle to have been won. He was an apostate, yes, but inexplicably wise, wit sharp enough to cut. Even when they were on opposite sides of a matter, she could trust him to maintain some amount of order and sense.

“There’s no one—” Cassandra muttered aloud, flicking her quill towards the inkwell. “—no one left.”

Even Cole had disappeared the night of the coronation, despite hours of searching. A guardsman attested he’d seen a young, pale man on the very edge of the crowd, but only for a moment. By the time everyone dispersed, all greetings and blessings exchanged, he was gone, and Cassandra had only be able to question the small handful of servants and soldiers who remained. Had he forgotten they were supposed to speak? Had something inexplicable drawn him elsewhere?

Glancing at the mirror in the corner was a mistake. Lines of fatigue cut through her face, eyes dark and strained from working by guttering candlelight without rest. Dull, glassy, not—not blue. Not that bright flash that split through her skull, set her skin alight. The coronation hadn’t been the first time, nor the second. While its appearances were few and far between, it came and went at will, with no warning or apparent cause. The brief spells didn’t  _hurt_ , per se, but Cassandra was left entirely drained after each occurrence, and it felt like her bones had been rearranged, skin pulled too taut.

After the Fade. That’s when it began, after seeing Justinia — or a fragment of her — one final time. The entire trek had been agonizing in a way Cassandra couldn’t describe, like her body was twice as heavy as it was meant to be, but when no one else complained, she’d maintained her silence. Mortals were not meant to physically walk the Fade; it hadn’t surprised her that doing so was overly taxing. She frowned, thinking on it further — even surface dwarves never experienced the Fade in dreams, and it was the home of Cole’s natural state. Perhaps it  _had_ been different for him and Varric, although Adaar never commented on it either. Who knew how it felt to a Qunari?

A light knock made Cassandra stiffen, wondering who could need something from her so early. These were usually the moments in which she awoke, taking comfort in the solitude and stillness.

“I know you’re awake, Cassandra.” Leliana’s voice was soft, yet carried thanks to the gap between door and frame. “Your quill was scratching.”

The books were everywhere. Getting to her feet immediately, Cassandra picked them up with as much care as she could, praying none would fall and draw attention, even as the unwieldy stack gave a threatening wobble. No shelf was empty enough to hold all of them, no drawer deep enough. In a fit of desperation, she knelt down, shoving each book under the frame of the bed, one by one. Tugging the top blanket so it would drape all the way down to the floor concealed them from first glance, or so she prayed.

“Cassandra.” A long-suffering sigh followed. “Please, let me in.”

Even without the reinforcement of an order behind the words, Cassandra’s back straightened as she stood, averting her eyes away from the mirror before turning the deadbolt to unlock the door. It swung open, revealing Leliana in her bedclothes, hair only lightly brushed. She was wearing slippers, at least, but Cassandra’s gut response was more of shock than anything else.

“Most Holy, you cannot be seen wandering the halls in such a state!” Her whisper was forceful, but not enough to carry down the hall to open ears.

“A problem solved simply enough if you allow me inside.” Leliana countered, and Cassandra stepped out of the way as quickly as she could. “As it is, I refuse to be in full regalia before the cock even crows.”

“It will soon enough.” She murmured, closing the door and setting the lock again.

“And yet it appears you haven’t slept a wink.” Cunning eyes swept the room in an instant, taking in its state. “Pulling the sheets into a mess won’t convince me you were in bed, Cassandra, not when you’re still in yesterday’s tunic.”

“I—” Embarrassment colored her face at the accusation, but it was one she couldn’t afford to refute. “My apologies, Your Perfection.”

Leliana paused, lips pursing into a tight line. With slow steps, she made her way over to the window, and Cassandra’s pulse leapt up into her throat at the sight of the parchment in open view, quill wet with ink and close at hand. That was as damning as the books, if what was written upon it was at all understood. Yet the other woman’s gaze never visibly strayed to the desk, remaining focused on the brightening sky in the distance.

“I would have you call me by name again,” Leliana began, arms crossing as if to ward off the cold. Her robe wasn’t particularly substantial, despite gold and silver embroidery outlining the Chantry’s symbol on the back. “I am Divine Victoria now, but to my friends — to you — I wish to be Leliana. Can’t it be so?”

“It’s not appropriate, Most—” Biting her tongue on the title, Cassandra had to hold the words in her throat for a moment, counter the reflex ingrained for years upon years. “It should not be so.”

There was a light exhale, silk rippling along Leliana’s spine. “Because of tradition?”

“Because I respect and honor your position, just as I honored Justinia and Beatrix.” Cassandra sighed, canting her weight onto one leg. “I will not give you less because we were equals once.”

“Is respecting my wishes less worthy?” No malice carried through the question, but she still felt something in her stomach sink.

“No!” It came out like a shout, like a curse. “That’s not what I meant.”

Leliana’s head bowed by centimeters. “I’m sorry. Twisting your words is unfair, especially when I know how much it pains you to feel loyalties split.”

“Split?” She yearned to take that damned parchment and toss it straight out the window. Or better yet, into the fireplace. “How do you mean?”

“I know you wished to reform the Seekers after Corypheus’ destruction, yet I asked that you become my sole Hand, take on the full burden of the Chantry and all that entails.” Leliana’s fingers tightened around either arm, looking tight enough to bruise. “Perhaps it was selfish or weak to keep you so close, to want someone I knew well reporting to me directly.”

Cassandra shook her head, then let it hang, shoulders sagging. “I accepted. It felt right.”

Turning to glance over one shoulder, Leliana looked at her, and something wavering, nearly wounded, was poorly concealed in that stare. “And does it feel right now?”

“I can feel nothing else.” Close enough to the truth that Cassandra shuddered, willing the weight of the words to fall away. “And that frightens me.”

Leliana’s slippers were perfectly silent against the stone floor as she turned, approached with slow steps. Even as Cassandra raised her head, saw the hand come to cup her cheek, it was impossible to speak, pull away from the contact. The other woman’s palm was warm, softer than it used to be now that quills were wielded more often than blades.

“I would absolve you of everything,” fingers traced down to the line of her jaw, where muscle tensed in a hard knot, “if you asked me, Cassandra. I — and the Chantry — would not turn from you if this responsibility is too much.”

“I know.” Knowledge like a lodestone, guiding her, bringing her close. “But I would not absolve myself.”

Oh, but it was selfish too. That stung more than anything else, burned like bile that Cassandra could never swallow past. Would it not be better for her to leave rather than put Leliana at risk, than put the Chantry itself at risk? If it was true, if what whispered in the darkest recess of her fears was true, then such truth would be damning, wholly irredeemable, but her instincts rebelled at every turn. She _wanted_  to be here. After so many years, so many deaths and betrayals, so much loss, Cassandra couldn’t dream of straying from the woman she knew, who was familiar enough to trust and talk to. Such a privilege contained precious few her entire life, always small and held close like a keepsake.

“You should sleep.” Leliana said gently.

“There’s a new day ahead.” The other woman’s hand fell away, but Cassandra’s cheek held some warmth in its absence. “I can’t afford to sleep.”

“I’m going to be in my private chambers drafting missives all day to ensure our passage through Ferelden is properly sanctioned and funded, Cassandra. You can talk to the quarter and horsemasters this evening, or on the morrow. No harm will be done.”

After a moment’s grumbling, she let the protest die on her lips. The request could very well be made an order, and refusing to rest would make her look like a petulant child rather than being grateful for the reprieve. Nodding faintly, Cassandra went over to the window and latched it shut, pulling the curtains closed afterwards to block out the sunlight. The candle on her desk had long expired, only a puddle of wax and a dark nub of wick, and thus had no need to be snuffed out.

“Thank you.” Leliana added with a smile. “I’ll ensure you’re not disturbed.”

“I appreciate it—” Gritting her teeth, Cassandra hesitated before murmuring, “Leliana.”

“Look at that. The world didn’t crumble now, did it?” The tease ended with a flourish as she left the room, closing the door behind her without a single squeak of a hinge.

For a few minutes, Cassandra simply stood by her desk, looking down at the parchment even though the names blurred the longer she stared. With a low sigh, she tucked the list into a drawer and out of sight, eyelids determined to full shut before she managed to reach the bed. While her boots were removed with care, the rest was not, tunic and breeches clumsily cast aside into a pile as she climbed onto the sheets, fabric cool and inviting against her skin. The bear hide Cassandra preferred in winter was drawn up over her body too, its familiarity soothing her to a dreamless sleep.

—

While the Grand Cathedral at Val Royeaux was technically the Divine’s home, it was rare for her to stay there for more than a few months out of the year. Justinia had been famous for spending so little time there, people joked that if you wished to seek an audience with Her Perfection, one must go grovelling to the nearest royal court. People also said that she was the greatest player of The Game, and Leliana would not let that aspect of her office die.

The Empress’ court at Halamshiral was the first port of all, at least, traditionally. Leliana and Cassandra had argued about the arrangements for hours.

“You cannot visit Denerim before Halamshiral!” Cassandra had snatched up the little figurine that denoted Leliana from the Ferelden portion of the map. Before she placed it in Orlais, her thumb swiped slowly across its back and she snatched her hand away. Disguising the motion with a clearing of her throat, she folded both hands smartly at the small of her back.

With a look that sent most people fleeing for the hills, Leliana jabbed a finger at Denerim, “The Empress and her court must be taught a lesson! I will not pander to their every whim! We will start in Denerim and make a full circuit through Orlais, Nevarra, Antiva, and end in Rivain.”

“Halamshiral first,” Cassandra growled, placing both fists on the table and leaning over it, “Then we head East into Ferelden, cross the sea into Rialto Bay and trek back through the Free Marches and Nevarra to Val Royeaux.”

Leliana matched Cassandra’s pose so that they glared at each other over the map, “And by being so circuitous we announce our deference to Celene. Shall I have heralds trumpet it from every rooftop? Perhaps I should kneel at Celene’s feet while I am at it, hmm? That would serve the same purpose, no?”

“Don’t be so childish!” Cassandra snapped.

“ _Childish_?”

For a moment they glowered, and the air between them seemed to crackle. Leliana wanted to reach out and — do  _something_. Throttle her, perhaps. From the look on Cassandra’s face, she was entertaining similar thoughts.

From their right came a knock, and the heavy iron-banded door swung inwards, admitting a young servant girl, arms laden with rolls of parchment. She froze in place like a deer caught in the wolf’s stare, as they both swung their attention to her. With a frightened squeak, she whirled around and bolted.

Looking anywhere but at each other, they both stepped back from the table. The silence that fell between them thickened with unspoken words, until finally Cassandra sighed. “Slight Celene, and you would leave our backs exposed,” she remained firm, “It would be a tactical blunder.”

Arms crossed, scowling down at the map, Leliana huffed, “Fine.” She narrowed her eyes, “But we head to Denerim immediately afterwards.”

Cassandra bowed her head, “As you wish, Most Holy.”

Halamshiral had been first, and it went as well as could have been expected. The Game flourished, never flagging, slowly growing less insular, though Leliana would see more rapid growth if she had it her way. The entire time Cassandra had shadowed Leliana’s step, hand hovering at the hilt of her blade, gaze flashing bright and burnished as her silverite armour. Most of those in attendance avoided approaching the Divine directly, but the Empress was not one of them. In appearance Celene and Briala had been nothing but the most gracious of hosts, and Leliana had met them blow for blow. She could have called upon Celene to visit her again in Val Royeaux — the best neutral ground she could think of on such short notice — but such demands only begged to be declined.

_‘Never give an order you know won’t be obeyed.’_

Leliana shook Marjolaine’s familiar words from her head. That honeyed voice frequented her thoughts far too often of late.

Orlais faded into the distance as the Divine’s escort trailed through the countryside, curving around Lake Calenhad and towards Lothering. Sentimentality nagged at her to stop there for a day, but she pushed the thought aside. Appearances must be kept. Denerim must be next.

—

If there was something Leliana hadn’t missed about traveling in Ferelden, it was the mud. No matter how powerful the horse or how gilded the wheel, their wagons and carts were determined to either stick in the mire or pitch from side to side, what little dry ground there was leaving the road uneven. Near the largest villages and cities, cobblestone and bridges kept the roads in fair condition, but when one was traversing the whole of the country, it became immediately obvious which throughways were kept in fine repair and which were not.

Rather than risk toppling her inkwell again on the velvet seats, Leliana stoppered the little glass bottle and carefully stored the letters in her lap back into a waterproof scroll case, grateful for the old leather that could weather such a dour climate. A brief glance past the curtain proved the sun was finally beginning to set past a haze of grey, and she rapped hard on the closest wall, intending to draw the driver’s attention.

A small panel was yanked open from the front, bright green eyes staring into the enclosed coach. The horses whinnied, but they continued to pull forward, dragging the wheels through resilient swamp. “Your Perfection?”

“I believe it’s time we find a place to set camp.” Leliana said, resisting the urge to wipe away the sweat trickling down her neck. “Inform Cassandra, please.”

There was a quick nod. “As you wish, Most Holy.”

The panel slid shut, but the shout of the driver carried in her ears, one yell echoing through the entire convoy as scouts and guards called to one another. Only a moment past before a solid set of hoofbeats thundered up to her side, followed by the tap of a gauntlet against the window. Leliana drew the small curtain and unlatched it, drawing in cold but fresh air and directing her eyes to the steel slit of Cassandra’s helmet.

“There’s a clearing half a mile ahead that should suit.” She sounded a touch hoarse; too long spent riding and giving orders without stopping for water or rest. Leliana’s brow furrowed, but she expected little else by this point. “But we could last until nightfall.”

“No one enjoys cutting wood or starting a fire in the dark, Cassandra.” There was a soft grunt from behind the helmet, but she ignored it. “We’ll make camp.”

“By your leave, Most Holy.”

A snap of tight reins sent the pale charger Cassandra rode galloping forward, the banner of the Divine bound to her saddle fluttering in the wind. Leliana closed the small window, but left the curtain open, watching the clouds in the sky darken and twist with the threat of a storm. She prayed it wouldn’t rain, but it was a futile plea now that they were more or less in Ferelden’s heartland. Yet, this was in a sense her home, or nearly.

By the time the coach was led off the road, Leliana could already hear the strikes of axes and hammers, attendants setting up her tent first and chopping kindling for the central fire. The driver’s feet splashed against mud before he peered inside the window, lightly knocking on the outside door.

“Shall we drop the stairs, Your Perfection?” He asked.

“You may.” She was  _quite_  ready to be out of this velvet trap and stretch her legs, but the Divine was always carried in such luxury; not only for the gold on the outside, but to keep assassins from having a clean shot at range.

The door was opened, a small wooden block of steps set in place so she could descend from the coach to the thick rug unrolled across the ground, providing brief protection from the damp earth. Leliana silently adjusted her vestments before exiting the coach, watching as the tireless engine of the Chantry’s faithful put the camp together in record time. A hunting party had already gathered to catch something fresh for dinner, bows strung and an eager hound nuzzling its mistress’ hand.

Cassandra was in the center of it all, tirelessly directing everyone who came her way to this tent and that cache. An endurance to be envied, if worry hadn’t tugged at Leliana’s heart to watch it unfold. It had been the exact same since the day they fought, up before the sun and refusing to sleep until the stars glittered overhead. If someone wasn’t — or couldn’t — do their job, Cassandra was immediately there, be it gutting a newly caught hart or weaving frayed ropes back together. Absent such distractions, a crude sparring dummy was built with logs and branches within reach and eventually demolished under endless strikes and parries of her sword.

They spoke when it was needful, but Leliana missed the wry comments over meals shared together, the soft questions about scripture and legend alike. Perhaps the sisters and clerics didn’t notice the difference, holding Cassandra’s presence in a similar sacred esteem as her own, but then again, they had never heard Cassandra’s husky laugh after one too many glasses of wine or listened to the Chant of Light intoned by a Seeker. To them, she was solemn and dutiful, subjugated to the Maker’s will.

What painful shift of fate, that the loss felt like a hand severed from Leliana’s wrist.

—

The lamps burned on low oil, flickering in a cool evening breeze through the flap of her tent, sending intermittent shadows dancing across the heavy canvas. Leliana sat over a square desk in one corner, writing letters in a cramped hand. The sounds of camp droned and shuffled outside, the last hum of vespers long since having faded, and the smoking torches lit. Leliana shifted uneasily on the chair. It creaked and wobbled and threatened to fold its joints.

Already once this evening she’d been sent sprawling across the floor, spilling ink across the desk where it dripped onto the Chantry-motiffed red silk rug spread across the ground. Andraste’s woven hand and gold embroidered sword bore dark blotches that refused to be scrubbed out. Looking down, Leliana frowned and scrubbed at the stains with her toe. It accomplished nothing, of course, but she worried at them nonetheless, thinking.

She would have to track down whatever servant had swapped out her old chair. Most people thought of The Game as encompassing matters on a grand scale, but Leliana knew better than most that it extended to even the smallest things. A favorite ring swapped out for one with another House’s crest. A specially made dress ripped down the bodice with a knife. The Divine’s chair broken at the legs so that it deposited her on her rear in front of important officials.

Duke Germain was too clever for this sort of thing. Perhaps the Comtesse Elodie? She was still green, yet fancied herself far more sly than she really was.

Elodie would learn — in time.

For now, balancing herself on the balls of her feet, Leliana continued to write. The rough-nibbed stylus scratched at parchment, wax gleaming golden in a tiny crucible above one of the lamps. She had dismissed her scribe as soon as she had taken up the mantle of Divine, preferring to write all missives herself. Especially ones of a delicate nature such as this.

Alistair had to be informed of what to expect from her visit. The years he had spent as King of Ferelden had sharpened him into a firm leader, but he had none of the shrewdness required of those who wished to survive The Game, and now that Orlais and Ferelden were mending their bridges, he would have to perform beyond the usual Ferelden standards.

Leliana carefully poured the hot golden wax onto the bottom of the page and stamped it with her seal. Leaning back, wary of the chair’s weak legs, she sighed and rubbed at her eyes. Her eyesight wasn’t what it used to be. Times were she could thread an arrow through a thimble at a hundred paces. Now she had to squint into the distance, leaves on far trees blurring into a single green mass even on sunlit days. Although she was loath to admit it, in a few years she would have to have spectacles from Serault crafted for her. Just the thought made her grimace.

“But I think you’d look nice in spectacles.”

Starting, Leliana jerked, wobbled, and the chair folded beneath her weight. With a flurry of Orlesian curses she scrambled to her feet, brushing dust from her robes and glaring at her intruder. When she saw who it was, however, her gaze softened, “Cole! What are you doing here?”

“You’re worried that spectacles would make you old,” crouched atop one of the storage trunks at the base of her cot, he cocked his head and studied her in that unblinking way of his, “I don’t understand how something you wear can change your age.”

“And here I was worried you’d come to try putting bees in my wine again,” Leliana muttered. She leaned over to right her chair, scowling fiercely down at it.

His legs unfolded, and he stood with a shrug, “You drink sweeter wine now. I don’t need to bring you any more bees.”

Shooting a puzzled frown in his direction, she gingerly took her seat once more. “Is that why you came to visit me? To talk about bees and honeyed wine?”

“No,” he admitted, stretching the word out into a slow drawl, “Someone should know. You should know.” He tugged at his amulet and worried his lower lip between this teeth, “I changed, then she…changed.”

Her blood ran cold, yet Leliana crossed her legs at the knee and continued to look at Cole with as much ease as she could muster. “Who changed?”

“Faith. Desperate, seeking. What once was hollow now filled, brimming, breathing from the belly like pale fire from beyond the veil. Swallowed whole like an egg, then hatched anew.” The words crooned like a hymn, rising in intensity, and Cole’s grip on the amulet tightened, “You’ve been to the Fade, just as Cassandra did. You both emerged different than before, but she _changed_.”

_Maker_.

All the breath left Leliana’s body in a shaky exhalation. She remembered. Kneeling in the watery air of the Fade at the feet of a demon in the guise of a Revered Mother. Drowning in the liquid murmurings like a baptism, praying for false peace, false hope —  _Blessed are thou who exist in the sight of the Maker. Blessed are thou who seeks his forgiveness. Maker, forgive me. Maker, forgive me. Maker, forgive m—_

Her chest constricted. Warden Mahariel had not been kind, ripping her from the Nightmare and shoving her from the demon’s side with a snarl. Leliana knew it had been the right decision, knew she should be grateful for being saved at all, but — the words heavy on her tongue, orison like a stone in her mouth. Faith frantic, clawing — _please. I am happy here. This is all I’ve ever wanted._

Cole was furiously muttering her thoughts under his breath. Clearing her throat, Leliana whispered, hoarse, “Please. Stop.”

“Sorry.” Cole hung his head, hiding his face beneath the broad brim of his hat.

The day had been long, the travel trying, but now she found she could not sit still any longer. Rising to her feet, Leliana paced the confines of her tent, from cot to entrance and back again, feet shuffling over the plush, ink stained carpet, “Nobody escapes the Fade untouched,” she said, “How is Cassandra any different?”

“I,” Cole hesitated, “don’t know? She feels different. To herself.”

He fell into step beside Leliana, pacing with her, mimicking her pose, arms crossed, fingers worrying at his underarms where daggers should have been,  “Faith was a seamless part of her, and now it’s not. Caer Oswin is where she felt it first. Killing Lord Seeker Lucius was right, but he sowed doubt. The Seekers were her foundation, and suddenly she was faced with this task — reform or destroy? Stone beneath her feet, crumbling, falling. And then dropped into the Fade—”

“With the Spirit of Divine Justinia,” Leliana finished for him, “A corner of the Fade ruled over by a Nightmare.”

“Yes!” he positively leapt with the force of his smile, “You understand! I knew you would!”

She shook her head and swept the fringe from her eyes, “Not entirely. Could you—?” She turned to ask him a question, only to find that the tent was empty but for herself.

“Cole?” Whipping around, Leliana frowned at the shadowed corners of her tent, even lifting the front flap to peer outside into the graying and purpling night.

Two of the four templar guards at every corner of her tent glanced over, then snapped to attention when they saw her titian shock of hair. Lips pursed, she only briefly considered asking if they’d seen a young man even knowing that it would be foolish to ask, before retreating into her tent.

Back inside she took up her pacing once more. At every turn she scuffed her heels against the sunburst-edged rug, a scowl furrowing her brow. The long hems of her casual robes — loosely belted around her waist and revealing hints of her bedclothes beneath — whisked around her bare ankles. She sat on her cot and glared at the chair in the opposite corner, fingers drumming against the thin feather mattress. Then, restless, mind strumming with questions and jittery anxieties, she shot up, clutched a shawl around her shoulders and kicked her feet into a pair of slippers.

The templars jerked to attention again when she burst from the tent, and without breaking she leveled a finger at those closest to her, “You two,” she ordered, “Follow me.”

Jumping into action they dogged her footsteps, jogging after her as she stormed to the next nearest tent. A handful of nearby sisters did a double take as she passed, dropping curtseys a stride too late. Leliana waved them away with a murmur, not sparing them a glance. The camp would talk. They would share gossip and secrets, and invent stories about the new Divine and her constant machinations with her Right Hand, her sole Hand — but Leliana did not care. She and Cassandra would talk, even if she had to tie Cassandra down and wring every word from her.

 


	3. Chapter 3

By the time Leliana reached Cassandra’s tent, her feet squelched with every step and her eyes blazed. A pair of affirmed Sisters saw her storming in their direction, and immediately they altered their course, trying and failing to appear nonchalant as they stepped off the planks of wood lining the avenues through camp. Leliana herself had slipped and staggered when a plank had tipped her into the mud — courtesy of the weight of two guards in full armor walking behind her.

For their blunder, the guards looked suitably chagrined. One even tried to sink to his knees and wipe her feet and robes off with the edges of his cloak. He only backed away when she placed a hand on his flat-topped great helm, and gave a gentle push and a not-so-gentle glare.

When she arrived, Cassandra was sitting on a three-legged stool outside of her tent, polishing the silverite breastplate in her lap to a burnished shine so that it glinted in the torchlight. Eyes fixed and unyielding, Cassandra ran the cloth again and again, utterly engrossed, like a knight stroking her thumb over a sealed reliquary. She didn’t even look up when Leliana stood before her.  

Crossing her arms, Leliana began without preamble, “I just received a visit from Cole. You’ll never guess who he wanted to discuss.”

She felt a flush of satisfaction when Cassandra’s hands faltered on her armor, if only for a moment before returning to their meticulous polishing, “If you’ve spoken with Cole, then we have nothing more to say to one another.”

Leliana frowned down at her, puzzled and taken aback. Before she could open her mouth and reply, Cassandra continued, “I will pack my things and go before dawn. My tent will burn, and they will find a body inside. I will make it look like a murder. You won’t need to worry about me any longer.”

It was then that Leliana realised Cassandra’s hands were trembling, fingers gripping the splotched and tattered cloth too tightly.

“If you do that, I won’t sleep until I find you,” Leliana said, voice hard with sincerity. It was only due to years of training in the Game that she was able to keep her voice so steady, and even then she struggled to fight against the tremor there.

Cassandra finally did look up at her, and her eyes could only be described as stricken, “Then Cole did not tell you everything.”

It was not a question. She didn’t wait for Leliana to give any indication of a response before rising to her feet. Still gripping the breastplate in her hands, she jerked her head for Leliana to follow, then pushed into her tent. The guards were standing just far enough behind her that they could not overhear the conversation, and Leliana had only to give them a look for them to turn and stand sentinel.

When she entered the tent, Cassandra was balancing her armor on a stand, back facing the entrance. The space was stark and austerely furnished. A simple cot. A scarred wooden table equipped with a stylus and ink and a lonely candle. A rack for arms and armor. A single, iron-bound chest for personal effects. Without sparing Leliana a glance, Cassandra fumbled in her pocket for flint and steel, and lit the candle, brimming, flickering, filling the small space with light.

Cassandra shoved a waterskin off her chest of belongings, the aged wood creaking as it opened. For such a long journey, there was very little inside it, necessities packed tightly together with cloth to keep glass and metal from scratching one another while the chest was jostled and carried. Underneath a heavy-knit gambeson, she withdrew a book bound with silver, its leather cover embossed with the unyielding, unblinking eye of the Seekers. Leliana had seen it paged through over and over; it was no surprise the tome had followed them here as well.

“I have read what is in here a hundred times over. Every entry, every appendices.” Calloused fingers clasped the Book of Secrets tight, enough for the leather to give like flesh. “And all I can hear now are the words Lord Seeker Lucius uttered to me. That the Seekers were an abomination.”

The Seekers that lay scattered across Thedas, their numbers unknown and unclaimed. Leliana knew the knot in her chest was guilt winding tight, but Cole’s words washed the worst of it away. She had to know, regardless of the reason or the answer. For Cassandra’s mind and heart to be elsewhere was worse than her not being present at all; absence made one grow fonder, but to see another drifting stung like poison in the veins.

“Have you not seen it?” Cassandra suddenly cast the book back into the chest, pages fluttering at the harsh impact. “You could pry the truth from the world’s best spies and assassins, convince a king that you knew him better than his own mother. How can you not know what afflicts me?”

“Tell me.” Leliana said, measuring her tone to make it a request rather than an order. “It is your words I want, not my own.”

“I think of being gone.” Facing away, head lowered, it was impossible to make out Cassandra’s expression, but dark waves of dread poured off rigid shoulders and clenched fists, forcing a tremble as it built. “Of going somewhere where no one would recognize my name. And the same thing happens every time.”

“Cassandra.” Soft and fleeting now, nearly a plea, but Leliana resisted the urge to reach out and touch her, for fear something would shatter that she could not repair.

Then Cassandra turned, gaze rising from the ground to meet hers, and Leliana recoiled before she could stop herself.

Cobalt light emanated from eyes that were meant to be hazel, calm stare replaced by the flicker of flame. It was extinguished in an instant as Cassandra staggered, catching herself before both knees buckled, but there was no mistaking what she had seen. Such had been reflected the day of her coronation, cast over Cassandra’s eyes like stained glass, a promise of pure and unyielding power.

“Lucius was close.” Hoarse with shame, each syllable torn raw and free from her throat, it was agonizing to watch. “The Seekers are not the abomination.  _I am_.”

Shock chilled her from head to toe, but Leliana managed to form the question. “How?”

“Does it matter?” Cassandra shouted, quieting as she dropped to her knees in abject defeat, body hunched. “It cannot be. In the house of the Divine, this cannot be. Whatever demon plagues me, knowledge of this would split all of Thedas against you. They already mutter and whisper with what change you bring. Val Royeaux would burn with an Exalted March demanding recompense, were they to see your  _champion_  is possessed. Everything would be lost.”

Everything, and then some.

“Are you sure, Cassandra?” Magic had a thousand wiles, many of which could twist the mind. Even with Corypheus dead, his presence had brought forth any number of powers that were said to be lost or impossible. This could be a curse, an act of vengeance wrought to bring the one who called the Inquisition forth low.  “Can it be nothing else?”

“What else whispers and cannot be resisted? What other being would spring forth in your presence, hungry for it?” Such bitterness infused the questions, Leliana felt her own stomach churn. “It will not allow me to leave you. That’s why I must be struck down.”

“As if that would not draw a Blight’s worth of attention on its own.” Her mind chased down every possibility, every favor and ear that could be bent. “You are my sole Hand who has served two other Divines, the Hero of Orlais, a lynchpin of the Inquisition, and as much as you often detest it, a member of the Nevarran royal family. Whether I ordered an execution or simply sent you to the Deep Roads, the world would know in moments.”

No argument fled Cassandra’s tongue after that, despite the raw tangle of fear and anger. Not at her, no, but the truth of being caught and helpless, pulled in two agonizing directions at once. More of a torment than any blade could unleash, to be sure.

“But this,” buckling down the flutter of terror in her stomach, Leliana reached out to cup Cassandra’s cheek, swept her thumb just under where those eyes had glistened inhuman blue, “we can hide. My role as the Left was shielding the Chantry’s sins as much as punishing those of others. You know that.”

“It’s not right.” Cassandra forced between clenched teeth.

“Perhaps, but we won’t hide forever. Only long enough to find the cause and see it snuffed out. You deserve far more than to have to fall on your sword due to happenstance, Cassandra. Do you think the Maker would cast you aside so frivolously as you have yourself?”

The chastisement rang as clearly as a Chantry bell and Cassandra’s shoulders sagged. “I pray it would not be so.”

“Then grant me the time to come to terms with it and seek out a solution.” Her hand fell aside, fatigue sending a twitch up her spine. Today had grown quite long and promised to be longer still. “If it truly begins to overwhelm you, then I will ensure no one else is put in harm’s way.”

“Were I to turn—”

“You will be struck down as any other.” Leliana interrupted, with more haste than she truly preferred.

More so, when grateful relief was mirrored back at her. “Thank you.”

—

Ferelden may have lacked the vast sprawling libraries of Orlais or Tevinter, but it still boasted a fine collection of scholarly pursuits if one knew where to look. Denerim was one such a place. Leliana had only a day and a half before her meeting with Alistair and Anora. Not enough time. Not nearly enough. It was all she had, however, so she would use it to the best of her advantage.

Every day she seemed to discover more and more downsides to being Divine, swiftly outpacing the number of perks. Where once she had passed through the shadows unseen, unshaken by the darkness of the world — indeed, even somewhat taken with it — now her presence was announced like a horn raised to a warrior’s lips. Sometimes actual horns were involved, harkening her presence right in her ear and making her wince. Those moments were the worst. Over the horns, she preferred being pointed and gawped at by strangers, followed around by a constant entourage of fawning yet sombre attendants.

Earlier that evening she had presided over vespers at the Chantry Hall across from Denerim’s normally bustling marketplace. That evening, the Chantry hall had been more packed with people than Leliana had ever remembered seeing before. People crowded the steps, extending out onto the street, craning their necks to see through the open doors, hoping for a glimpse of the Divine Victoria.

Cassandra had been at her side the entire time, as was her place. There would have been murmurs and rumors had she not attended. Not that she didn’t try to wriggle out of attending the ceremony, because she did. Vehemently. It was only when Leliana put her foot down — figuratively and literally — that Cassandra finally conceded.

There had been an actual stamping of feet on Leliana’s part, but not petulantly. Or so Leliana had convinced herself.

During the ceremony, Leliana led the congregation in song. She began alone, her voice a high lone soprano soaring among the rafters, light as a wing, the nightingale’s sundry lays. Then Cassandra stepped up beside her and joined in the canticle. Her voice scoured, burnishing rich and thick and low as an anointed whetstone.

Had Leliana been anyone else, she would have faltered. She had never heard Cassandra sing before. Camping among the fields of snow after fleeing Haven with the Inquisition, Cassandra had kept her mouth clamped firmly shut while all the others around her lifted their voices. In Denerim, however, by Leliana’s side, she sang and her words seemed to gleam, every note a lambent counterpoint.

The hall was heavy with incense, burning pewter plates dangling from the colonnades like hanged men. Even as she sang, Leliana felt she could not properly breathe. Every inhalation a reminder of another time in this same place — Marjolaine demanding worship, Marjolaine smelling like chrism and sex and vice, while beside her now Cassandra smelled of smoke and prayer, and she was close, too close —  

Leliana had never been so glad to finish a vesper service in her entire life. Her robes swished about her feet as she strode briskly towards Denerim’s royal library. Flocks of people knelt as she passed, and she was sorely tempted to slip away and take the back routes she knew so well. This city had only to exist to act as a constant reminder of who she once was, the person she swore she would never be again.

Once thankfully chambered away in a private viewing room of the library, Leliana pulled the weighty ridiculous hat from her head and tossed it onto a nearby table. Running her hands through her short hair, she breathed a sigh of relief.

“Maker,” she muttered to herself.

Pushing wayward thoughts into the back of her mind — she would not think about Marjolaine now, of all times — Leliana turned to the two attendants waiting by the door, “Bring me  _The Litany of Adralla_  and a copy of Pharamond’s Journal.”

The attendants bowed and left. There was no point trying to hide her reading material from them. They would see what she was studying regardless. Better to be transparent and track any leaks in her staff back to their source, than to be furtive and seem like she was hiding something.

She knew both titles should be here, but she couldn’t think of any other books that would contain the relevant information, even peripherally so. When the attendants returned with the tomes in hand, Leliana sat at the table and flipped each book codex open. Faint clouds of dust plumed into the air, and Leliana swatted at the air with a delicate cough. Then, dragging a candle closer, she set herself to the task at hand.

Slowly she combed through the materials, carefully parsing lines and lines of text until they blurred together on the page. Nothing of any real use came up, however. She rummaged through those books back to front to no avail, until the candle burned low and the flame sputtered on its shortened wick. The two attendants dozed off in their chairs flanking the door, heads nodding with sleep and the dim call of night.

Meanwhile Leliana sat back in her chair and pushed the books away with a disgusted huff. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Oh, there were notes on Tranquility and demonic possession, and wards against mages in the thralls of blood magic, but nothing on how a Seeker of Truth might be possessed. By all accounts, it was impossible. Then how—?

Brows furrowed, Leliana pulled Pharamond’s Journal back into her lap, propping it up on the lip of the table. She flipped to the section about Tranquility and tapped her finger on the page.

Hadn’t Cassandra mentioned Tranquility when she had received the Seekers of Truth ritebook? And hadn’t Pharamond himself been Tranquil?

In that moment, tired and fighting off sleep, Leliana wished Wynne were still alive. If only for a kind guiding word, as well as a hint in the right direction.

Then again…Wynne hadn’t been the only one to have encountered Pharamond and Cole, had she? There had been others who might yet give insight, others who Leliana had been instrumental in contacting when still operating under the Inquisition.

Straightening, Leliana dug up a few sheafs of parchment from across the table. Dipping a stylus in ink, she began to hastily copy the pages from the journal on Tranquility. Dusting it off with a handful of ground pumice, she folded the pages and tucked it into a safe place in her robes. Then she closed the books and stood, chair legs scraping back on the stone floor.

Her two attendants jerked awake with identical snorts, scrambling to their feet as Leliana opened the door and made her way out. One had to double back and grab her hat, carrying it in both arms like a babe in swaddling. Leliana paid them little attention. If they were spies, then they were either very good spies, or very poor ones indeed. As time went on, it became harder for Leliana to tell which was which.

She would need to speak to one of her trusted agents in the morning. Word must be sent to a certain ex-Templar. Whether Evangeline de Brassard would reveal any information to the Divine remained to be seen.

—

There were very few occasions where Cassandra decided to go past the first or second pint. Most were in backwater battlefields where the water could not be trusted and it rained too hard for anything to be boiled clean, but there was also the rare occasion — or so Varric would boastfully attest — that she could be convinced to indulge in several rounds over cards, providing the company was chosen carefully. She avoided the majority of hard liquor on account that it tended to be rotgut that spent six months stowed away in the bottom of a leaking ship, but even Justinia had convinced her to share a cup of Golden Scythe to celebrate a particular landmark birthday.

Tonight there was no practicality, much less celebration. Only the fact that someone in possession of a large amount of Orlesian gold in Denerim could buy almost anything, even two bottles heavy enough to each need their own woven sack, for propriety as much as not having them dropped and shattered onto the flagstones outside.

The first bottle had been poured into the wooden cup she always traveled with, hardy and worn smooth after more than a dozen campaigns. Cassandra sputtered on the second swallow, cursing that she lost her nerve to down the entire amount at once, but no matter how smoothly the liquor traced down her throat, it still settled in her stomach like fire. By the end of the third cup, she’d taken a worn cloak and thrown it over the mirror in the corner, drawn the curtains across the window and tied them there.

“Is this your calling, Cassandra,” she muttered, tilting the bottle to fill the cup again — some splashed over the edge and was wiped away with the back of her sleeve, “to hide behind the kindness of the Divine? Craven husk.”

What answer was there to give? Cassandra wondered if there was something she could say that would stir the demon up, make it show its face or give a name. The abomination had to be present, clinging to her skin and drinking deep. How had she fed it, lured it? Rage? Pride? Desire? Cole’s mutterings stewed around the inside of her skull, words twisting back and forth; did a spirit follow her from the Fade, escape with no one seeing? For sure, they had all been shocked, the Inquisitor more than anyone else, but how subtle a creature it had to be to latch onto her bones with barely a whisper.

“What are you, mm?” The last of the bottle was poured out, swallowed so fast that Cassandra couldn’t even define the taste. “Does it amuse you to dance in my eyes and then flee, trying to stamp your damned presence out? More like a wisp or a sprite than anything to fear.”

Nothing. Not a word or a breath. Her fingers fumbled with the wire wrapped around the cork on the second bottle, the winding metal sharper than it looked. With a flustered growl, Cassandra tore it out completely, only for white froth to rise up the neck of the glass and spill outward in a bubbling mess. These were borrowed quarters, and she hadn’t the first idea where to find a cloth to clean it up. Rather than stain her tunic further, Cassandra stubbornly picked up the bottle itself and took a long gulp, letting the bubbles pop and jump on her tongue instead.

It still burned, just like the first. Mocking and cheery.

_“Turn to your faith, Seeker.”_

Cassandra recoiled from the table in front of her, wooden chair screeching against the rounded stones of the floor. Something had spoken aloud although her lips were sealed shut, and she whirled around out of her seat, ready to wield the bottle like a bludgeon, but the room was empty. A faint trace of air from underneath the door made the bottom of her cloak tremble over the mirror, yet no one emerged from there or from within the shadows.

It was real, echoing in her ears. Or perhaps an echo entirely, crawling up from the grave.

“Lucius. Is that you?” Cassandra bared her teeth, chased the question down with a harsh swallow. She was floating on the warmth like a sailor thrown overboard, clawing at driftwood. “Not a demon, but a cheap haunt.”

When there was no reply, anger boiled up in place of revulsion, hot as molten lead. “Answer me!”

A soft knock on the door made her stagger, suddenly looking for a place to put the bottle. It was too full to simply toss aside, and Cassandra couldn’t figure out anywhere it could go without the garish golden label standing out.

“Cassandra.” Her name was muffled by the door, not like the voice just a moment ago.

Leliana.  _The Divine._ Victoria.

“Come in,” Cassandra murmured, knowing any attempt to stonewall would be parried away, “Your Perfection.”

The door swung open and it took mere seconds for Leliana’s eyes to sweep the scene before her, followed by the door slamming shut as soon as she crossed the threshold. Dismay warred with upset in those blue eyes — a true blue, more like stone than glass — and Cassandra felt shame crawl up her body with all the bitterness of bile. For such a harsh reaction, she had either drank too much or not near enough.

“Were you planning on attending morning services with a hangover?” Leliana asked, tone softer than it had any right to be.

“It would be fitting, wouldn’t it?” Raising the bottle, she turned it outward so the brand could be seen. “Andraste’s Grace, brewed locally. Sweeter than the flower, or so they say.”

“I came here to tell you that my research is proceeding apace.” A glance was spared towards the books on Cassandra’s desk, the scribbled notes and growing stack of scrolls. “But it seems I’d be better served here.”

Cassandra frowned deeply. “How so?”

“What troubles you so much as to crawl into the bottom of a barrel? No matter how expensive the brew, I’ve found intent is often the same.” The room swayed when Leliana stepped forward, carving through the distance between them. “I know you’ve kept many secrets before, Cassandra. Even those I was not previously privy to.”

“Not from those who look up to me so highly. Not from the innocent who flock back to Andrastian hands and know nothing of what lays in our midst.” She nearly took another sip before thinking better of it. Her mouth was sour enough. “How can you trust me in such a state?”

“Because beneath the Grace you’re drowning yourself in and any curse that rides upon your shoulders, I’ve seen what kind of woman you are. No brand of intoxication can strip that away, try as you might.”

“When you read me so well, what is there to say?” The sarcasm was biting, like a serpent wrapping around Cassandra’s tongue. “Have you come to bless the wine?”

Leliana blinked, sedate and unimpressed. “You’ve had enough. I think you know that just as well.”

Before Cassandra could reply, the bottle was taken from her hand, fingers tightening around empty air. Mere months couldn’t strip away a pickpocket’s grace, nor a bard’s more subtle tricks, even when the Divine title settled over Leliana’s frame like a halo. She made a cursory grab to take it back, only to be denied.

“Is it so bad that you would consign yourself to this darkness? Drunk and mindless?” Colors blurred at the edges, but Leliana’s eyes stayed exactly the same.

“It helped.” Cassandra admitted, the truth quiet and pathetic. “At least to sleep, I thought it would. To feel like I own my own body again instead of—a voice—”

“Did something speak to you?” Leliana asked, brow raised with clear concern.

“More than likely, just a ghost.” She was going to have a headache powerful enough to sink a dreadnaught, that was for sure. “Lucius snapping at my heels.”

Another step and they were near enough to touch. Cassandra swallowed hard, the pull on her flesh muted by the alcohol but still there — as it always was. “Are you sure?”

“Why do you always stand so close to me?” It was muttered, nearly spit. “I cannot think when you do. I’ve told you years ago that I cannot, will not—”

“Cassandra—”

“No!” The room spun and lurched, her gut wrenched into a tight, singular knot. “That is not who I am. And you are, now you’re—”

A cool palm cradling her face stopped Cassandra short. She gasped, a cerulean flare obscuring her vision, sapping the rotten haze of the liquor away. It was purged from her blood all at once like she’d been doused in ice water, shuddering as the glow, still tinged with a glimmer like sapphires, vanished as quickly as it had risen. Cassandra choked, tongue dry and sticking in her mouth, but after a gulp of air, it eased.

The world was crystal clear and steady, her body anchored to the ground.

“Are you alright?” Leliana asked, eyes wide. “You just—”

“I’m fine. I—” No longer drunk, Cassandra remembered every word she had just uttered, nearly cursed in Leliana’s direction.  _Maker’s breath._ “Please, let me sleep.”

“We will survive this storm like any other.” The touch was gone, yet still warm as a brand across her face. “No matter what games something wicked seeks to play.”

She nodded faintly and was relieved when Leliana turned away, wishing her a kind goodnight that was wholly undeserved. Cassandra began to snuff out the candles around the room, but before reaching the last one, she tugged the length of the cloak away from the mirror it was covering.

Only her own eyes were reflected. For now.


	4. Chapter 4

A table lay between her and Leliana. It was massive, the sprawling sort meant for a banquet of royalty or the highest orders of the Chantry, but despite its size, the wood’s perfect polish and intricate designs carved along the surface, there were only two chairs at opposite ends. Cassandra recognized the one across from her, gilded with sunbursts and so rigid it would only allow for perfect posture; what else would the Divine be permitted to sit in, have the burden of leadership clasped to her shoulders like a cloak of barbs, digging deeper with every passing day?

Yet Leliana was smiling, wearing not the robes of rank, but something light and thin, so unadorned it could only be meant for the eyes of close friends behind private doors – or lovers. Cassandra expected her stomach to turn at the lack of propriety, but something about the scene felt right, in the same way as a holy woman setting aside her shoes to a beggar before walking barefoot down the road was. Simplicity in the presence of compassion, a gift despite the risk of appearances.

“Aren’t you going to drink your wine?” Leliana asked, and Cassandra frowned. She hadn’t noticed the heavy goblet in front of her, filled to the brim with wine so dark it bordered on black.

“Of course.” The words left her lips, fainter than an echo.

She blinked. Or she must have, because the next thing Cassandra knew, Leliana had vanished from her seat. As to where became clear when a soft, musical laugh tickled her ear from behind, Leliana’s breath warm as she draped herself over the back of the chair. Cassandra felt her breath catch, hand reaching for the wine before she could think better of it. The goblet was heavy, so full as to spill with the slightest tilt, and Leliana’s grasp joined hers, fingers overlaid atop scarred knuckles and gripping tight.

“You can’t lose even a drop, you know.” The whisper may as well have been a shout for the effect it had, a hard tremble working its way down Cassandra’s arm. “What would they say, my champion?”

“Nothing flattering.” She whispered back, eyes locked on the wine as it was drawn to her lips.

Strange that now she was parched, throat dry and wanting. Cassandra parted her lips to drink just as Leliana’s other hand fell across her eyes, plunging the world into darkness. It felt tighter than a blindfold, the heat of skin on skin nothing short of maddening as she swallowed the first sip, spice and heady fruit blossoming on her tongue. She drank and drank as directed, until her head was tilted all the way back to catch the dregs, throat bared before her tongue darted out to catch the final drop from the rim of the goblet, the press of silver cold and sobering.

Or nearly.

Leliana’s hand hadn’t moved, still cutting off her vision. Cassandra relaxed her fingers, let the goblet be taken away as she breathed, tried to think. It was like trying to slice through fog, and before she could cobble her thoughts together, even form a word, the goblet had returned, but this time, the taste was only of water.

“Does such purity call to you more?” Warmth infused the words, Leliana’s honeyed tone as soft a caress as silk. “Such discipline?”

She couldn’t answer, couldn’t speak until the water was gone, desperately gulped down far faster than the wine. “Why are you covering my eyes?”

“Do you want to see them as they are now, Cassandra?” Leliana let out a hum of concern, the sound vibrating in her throat. “You know what lies within.”

Fear could strip a stumbling drunk back to his former self, and all seduction of the wine was gone in a freezing rush, the goblet subtly shaking in her hand. Such fine silver would be polished and cared for; it would reflect like a mirror if Leliana withdrew, let her see.

“Are you afraid of the light?” Blue and piercing, cast through Cassandra’s skin like a prism. “ _Or of me_?”

Leiana would never want her to be afraid. Nor would Divine Victoria, truly.

It was in that instant that Cassandra snapped awake, the fabric of the dream tearing asunder. Every taste and touch was a cruel illusion, dispelled from her thoughts as she fought to breathe, assuage the burning in her lungs. Weak sunlight slipped through the nearby curtains, attesting to the first fingers of dawn stretching over the horizon, but it felt as if she had spent the entire night running at a sprint, exhausting herself and drenched in sweat.

Would that she could have traded such torment for a hangover instead.

Halfway through washing her face in the basin by the armor stand, Cassandra heard a soft knock at the door and a whisper of paper. When she turned around, taking some solace in a cool cloth against her brow, there was a note just past the edge of the door, written on clean parchment in fresh black ink.

_Most Holy informed us that you had fallen ill last night. We hope the meal we’ve brought will bolster your health. –Sister Paulette_

With a sigh, Cassandra opened the door an inch, mindful of her state of undress. The hallway was already empty, but a tray was waiting on the floor, weighed down with a bowl of hearty Ferelden soup and fresh bread. Coils of steam were still rising off of both, and her stomach made its presence known with a low growl. Embarrassing as it was to rely on their misdirected kindness, hunger had decided her priorities.

She owed Leliana an apology. That was the truth lingering at the forefront of Cassandra’s mind as she ate in silence, ravenous and grateful for for the generously large bowl of soup. It was gone quickly enough, the bread soaked in what little broth remained and devoured just the same. While the fragments of the dream she could remember were troubling and tumultuous, facing the day ahead was that much easier with a full stomach and the vestiges of sleep washed away.

“Are you sated too, demon?” Cassandra muttered aloud, glancing towards the mirror. Nothing now, just like the end of last night. “You’ve had your fun, give me a moment’s peace.”

No answer. How oddly quiet for an abomination that loved to flash its color with only a second’s warning.

–

Leliana’s memory of Evangeline de Brassard was of a pretty girl who wore steel like a second skin, yet who still styled her black hair in the latest court fashion to attend an Orlesian ball as the Divine’s bodyguard. At the ball, Evangeline’s jaw had been clenched into a resolute line while she ignored the spiteful whispers of other women behind their delicate fans, and instead scanned the crowd for threats. Nothing escaped her. Not even the treacheries of court life.

For all that however, Evangeline had not recognised Leliana at the time for what she was. Not truly, in any case. Their conversation had been brief but blunt, and Leliana would be lying if she said she had not enjoyed such candor. It was refreshing, like cold water splashed across the face.

That being said, it seemed that in the time since then the ex-templar had grown more wary. This was a woman willing to literally crawl through fire and blood-magic to beat a man to death with her bare hands in the Divine’s defense. Leliana wondered if those staunch scruples still remained, or if that woman too had been lost in the ensuing madness of the world post-Corypheus.

With a flick of a knife, Leliana broke the muddy red wax seal holding the back of the letter together, and – knife still held loosely in one hand – flipped the pages open to read it.

_Most Holy,_

_I received your letter with no small amount of surprise. It has been some time since we last saw one another. While I would not normally hesitate to answer any questions put to me by the Divine, I’m afraid times have changed. I am no longer a Templar bound in your service. And so I answer you not as a dutiful servant, but as a concerned party, and even a friend._

_The matter you brought to my attention is…unnerving. But I am unsure how much help I can be to you. My involvement with spirits was limited before I met Wynne. All I can tell you is what I know from my experiences at the White Spire._

_I died. There can be no doubt. I was dead, killed by Lord Seeker Lambert. I stood on the other side of a blackness – a deep, fathomless void – and suddenly there was a golden light. Bright. Too bright. Bright enough to ache. And beautiful too. It filled me, and I lived._

_That is all. There is nothing more. Wynne passed the spirit on to me and now I carry it with me wherever I go. I feel no different. If this is possession, it is like nothing I have ever encountered before. Though I doubt it is possession at all. Whatever it is, it has no name yet._

_I am sorry I could not be more useful. I wish you the best of luck in your endeavors. Should you ever require a favor, you know where to find me._

_–Ev. d. Brassard_

With a sigh, Leliana folded the letter back up. She tapped it against her wrist and worried her bottom lip with her teeth. Just for this evening she had allowed herself the rare secret luxury of a cowl. The Divine’s massive mitre towered against the far wall upon a bust, but for now Leliana had cloaked herself in a samite shroud and found some small measure of comfort in it. Outside a wind sloughed through the hazel trees, and suddenly Leliana missed height. The height of the rookery its own comfort in dark times, while here Leliana felt grounded, as though leather straps had tangled her feet together and tethered her to the earth.

Evangeline, while as open and honest as she could be in a letter, had offered very little new information that could prove useful. As far as they knew, the spirit that had once lived inside Wynne and which now lived inside Evangeline was benign, like a tumorous growth. In its own way, that only brought more questions instead of answers. If the spirit were to be forced from her body, would Evangeline die? Was it less a cancer, and more a life-line propping her up when all else failed?

And more importantly, if the same were to be done to Cassandra, would she die? Were the lives of both spirit and Seeker so inevitably intertwined that they could no longer be parted? Was it worth the risk at all?

As if to make matters worse, there came a knock on the door. One of her more trusted ladies-in-waiting entered and paused in the threshold. Back in Skyhold, people were used to seeing Leliana hooded and veiled, but here she was the Divine Victoria, and the Divine had no reason to hide her face, even in her own private quarters in the waning hours of the evening. Leliana gestured for her to approach, but did not flip back her cowl.

Just for tonight, she told herself. Let the tales spread. She could turn the rumors on their heads, spin the spy’s hood as a devout’s veil. For now she needed this one small comfort.

The lady-in-waiting, a slip of a thing named Ines with sharp watchful eyes, came forward and held forth another missive, careful not to let Leliana touch her when she handed it over, as though she were terrified of being bitten. As though Leliana were a snake or a severe crow, ready to strike at the first scent of fear.

Any other time Leliana would have teased and alleviated the mood, but not tonight. Tonight she just asked abruptly and perhaps too harshly, “Any word from Aldric?”

Ines shook her head and took a step back, “No, Your Perfection.”

Aldric was one of Leliana’s most trusted spies. She had sent him on a mission to find out any additional information he could his hands on concerning Pharamond’s research. Anything that might have been buried or missed. Anything that could help them. Trusted as he was, even he did not know the true reason behind his orders. Still he obeyed without hesitation.

She had not heard from him in over a fortnight. Strange behavior from him, but not entirely unheard of. He had a history of going to ground if he ever got into trouble, and resurfacing later when he knew it was safe to return to the nest, as it were.

Turning the new letter over between her fingers, still holding the dagger in her other hand, Leliana did not open it yet. Instead, she studied Ines over its border. “You were in the Gnawed Noble tavern this evening.” It was not a question, “Tell me what you saw.”

Ines swallowed thickly, gathering herself before answering, “Bann Alfstanna got into a fistfight with Arl Wulff when she found out he encouraged the rebel mages in Redcliffe to join the Venatori.”

Ah, yes. Leliana remembered that. She had slipped him false information, where Cullen would have dragged him back to Skyhold and executed him. Both Alfstanna and Wulff had supported the Hero of Ferelden in the Landsmeet.

She gave Ines a look, and the girl continued, “Edwina slapped Bann Ceorlic for manhandling one of the serving girls, and had him thrown out.”

Ceorlic always did like his drink a little too much. He could never control himself after one too many pitchers of watery ale.

“Did anybody discuss the College of Enchanters?” Leliana pressed.

Ines licked her lips, her eyes darting anywhere but at Leliana, “Master Ignacio -” she started, then shifted her feet, “I saw Master Ignacio speaking with a member of the Blackstone Irregulars. I don’t know what they were talking about, but gold was exchanged. And later I heard the mercenary say something about a job that had to do with the College.”

Leliana’s hand tightened around the hilt of the dagger. Whoever had hired the Blackstone Irregulars could mean nothing but ill towards the newly founded College. Raelnor would never take on a contract that came from Ignacio’s lips. That left only Taoran, Raelnor’s ne’er-do-well son who valued profit above honor or integrity.

The leaders of these separate factions must be dealt with peacefully; Leliana was wholly committed to that. She would not see blood spilt. Still, perhaps it was time for one of her agents to pay a visit to dearest Taoran.  

Leliana flipped the dagger over in a deft flourish, cutting open the letter, “That will be all.” She dismissed Ines with a glance.

Ines fled without a backward look. At last Leliana was alone once more. It was one of those nights, where she fought temptation off in vain as it bore down upon her, like waves slapping against the hull of a ship. The temptation to revert to old ways – blood spotting on her hands, a night breeze caught in her hair, leather and chain armor heavy across her shoulders and back, yet somehow lighter than the Divine’s cloth and gold mantle.

Teeth clenched, Leliana scanned the letter, and tapped the tip of the dagger against the wooden table. A message from one of Briala’s agents. And – of course – it expressed the growing displeasure and resentment all across Orlais at the Divine’s dissolution of the Circle of Magi.

The dagger’s tapping quickened its tempo.

It was going to be a long night.

–

For all the bustle it took to get to Denerim, the demands of the day were rather sedate. Cassandra saw to the armory and horses, took her daily report from the quartermaster, and received no fewer than four concerned comments from different Sisters – and Mother Gisele – as to why she wasn’t resting. They invited her to afternoon prayers and more than one meal, all guises in order to get her out of her armor and sitting down. She appreciated their tenacity and concern, but despite a lingering unease in the back of her mind, there was little to be cured.

Not without a templar’s blade, anyway.

The midday sun was at its peak before Cassandra discovered where Leliana actually was, as passing servants and guards commented that she had not been in the public eye since the morning blessing. It was unlike her to remain in her room, save for those months in the Inquisition tower where company was refused if they were not birds or fellow spies. That grave obsession with knowledge, with subterfuge, had been disarming when compared to Leliana’s playful, even wry attitude as Divine Beatrix’s Left Hand, and Cassandra didn’t relish the thought of it returning.

The men posted at the Divine’s door gave a slight nod of greeting at her approach before stepping aside. They didn’t even ask what business was at hand; her presence was trusted implicitly, even with a sword strapped to one side. In one sense Cassandra was grateful for their lack of suspicion, but when it came to protecting the leader of the Chantry, no exceptions should be made. Demons weren’t the only ones who could change their face – plenty of those who played the Game excelled at exchanging one appearance for another.

“Has anyone else been to see her today?” Cassandra asked.

“No, Champion.” His helmet was rigid, barely moving when the guard shook his head. “She requested privacy, with you as the sole exception.”

Of course. Leliana could chart her path by rote now, guess every move. Rather than sigh, Cassandra forced a dutiful smile to her mouth and passed through the threshold, closing the door behind her with care.

Despite the hour, every curtain was draped shut, only the faintest rays of sun outlining the edge of each velvet barrier. Three candles had been melted to down to the last stub of wick, another set in its place without the wax of the former scraped clean and casting a rounded shadow over Leliana’s desk where she sat in perfect silence, save for the whisper-soft pass of a stylus over parchment. Cassandra recognized the clear bottle by her elbow – it was the type of ink that would dry clear, invisible to any who didn’t know the secret to exposing it.

She waited for Leliana to turn around, some sort of acknowledgment. Surely the opening of the door had been heard, the soft creak of her armor, but no greeting came. Cassandra bit her tongue, knowing the first word should be hers, a proper apology. How was it to be?  _I put all that you are in jeopardy_  was too strong – and too true – to be given with a simple  _I’m sorry_ , no matter how sincere.

Was this how the Herald felt? Holding something inside that drew judgment and terror in the same breath, wanting control over such power but fearing the price? And what sort of demon was it that dared so close to the Divine but seemed content to house itself in her flesh without any malicious intent? It would be a coup that would ring through the Veil to orchestrate such a betrayal; the possessed Right Hand cutting off the Left and dealing the Chantry a blow that it would not soon recover from. They were already held together with prayers and fraying threads, trying to balance austere practice with charity.

The Seekers had been culled too, down to a mostly nameless few, and yet Cassandra could not help but hold the Maker’s flame closer despite the secrets of the order left in her hands. Rebuilding them, pushing for truth and transparency, would be a bitter lie as long as this thing hid deep within.

“Most Holy.” Her voice nearly cracked, the title sticking in Cassandra’s throat.

When Leliana turned, the cowl casting her face in shadow was tugged down, the movement so smooth it had to be habit rather than choice. A few red strands moved with the gesture, leaving her hair slightly mussed. Candlelight coveted the hollows of Leliana’s cheeks, washed the lines of fatigue away in a bright glow. For a moment, Cassandra thought she was looking into the past at the silver-tongued spy introduced to her so many years before, just as quick with wit than a blade. She had insisted they would never be friends, once.

Now, what were they?

“You look better.” Leliana said softly, setting down her quill. “I suppose it was foolish to think you would spend the day in bed.”

“I’m not ill.” Cassandra countered before grimacing. “Not…in the traditional sense. Yet a danger to you all the same.”

A copper brow arched. “So you believe.”

“How could I not be? How can I trust my own motives, my own thoughts?” Sucking in a breath through her teeth, Cassandra wrestled with the words a moment longer. “I’m sorry, Your–Leliana. I’m sorry.”

“For what? Startling me?” Leliana’s tone was light, deceptively so.

“I pushed you away when you are nothing but generous, when you have kept faith in me that I am not…a monster.” It was by inches that she crossed the heavy carpet lining a path from the door to the desk, stopping just shy of Leliana’s feet. The urge to kneel asserted itself like a stone dropping into the pit of Cassandra’s stomach, wanting the burden lifted from her shoulders by a touch. Wherever the Divine walked was hallowed ground and she could be yet forgiven. “But I am.”

“You’re not, Cassandra.” The reply was sharp but not cold. “Not every spirit–”

“Do you think the people would believe that if they saw it burst from my skin? If in the wrong moment it takes hold of me? You’re giving succor to an  _abomination_ , Leliana.” She felt desperate, almost pleading.

Silence claimed the air for a moment before Leliana stood, stare as unyielding as steel. When words came again, they were quiet, tinged with the warmth that carried prayer and blessing. “So I am. Yet the Maker has not turned from me. If this is a trial or test, it is one I will answer with patience and mercy, not punishment. If He would fault me for not striking you down, if His wisdom is to end the life of someone so pious and devoted, then I have already failed.”

Cassandra bit her lip, mouth hot with protest. “But–”

“I will not let your fear speak for you, Cassandra.” A hand pressed against her chest, where past leather and steel, the heart there beat even faster. “There’s no demon to blame for that. It is so very human.”

“Forgive me.” Her tongue was like stone; it was so hard to breathe. “I have no right to ask, but it’s all I want.”

Leliana’s smile was beatific. “Is it?”

No, it wasn’t. And she couldn’t lie a second time.

Before the thought could register, the consequences, Cassandra leaned down and captured Leliana’s mouth in a kiss. The madness of the dream wasn’t here, only life and warmth and desire set free.

–

It tasted like incense, smoke shared between two mouths, damascus rose and iron and blood. Cassandra was this solid mass beneath her armour and beneath Leliana’s hands, tipping Leliana’s head back until her neck strained. The kiss was all teeth and fire – and Leliana had always responded well to those. Almost instinctively, Leliana’s mouth parted and she let loose a shaky exhale. She barely had enough time to reach up and place her hand at the nape of Cassandra’s neck, stroking the fine hair there, barely enough time to reciprocate in kind  – though reciprocate she did – before it happened.

Leliana’s eyes fluttered, lids obscuring most of her vision, but she could still see it. A bright blazing blue that flickered and sparked, dancing like embers from a forge. Cassandra’s skin glinted with it, little electric impulses darting lightning-quick. For all that she felt warm, pleasantly so, as though heat rolled off her in waves, expanding and filling the air around her.

With a gasp, Cassandra jerked back as though burned. Her eyes were torrents of light that stormed and raged, turbulent as a wildfire. Slowly Leliana stretched her hand out to cup her cheek, to offer some sort of solace, to touch her in any way she could, but Cassandra staggered out of reach.

Flinging her arm up as though to ward off an incoming blow, Cassandra panted, “Don’t!”

“Cassandra–” Leliana took a step forward, but let her arm fall to her side.

Cassandra was clawing at her temple with one hand, fingers clutching at the dark hair there. Gritting her teeth furiously, she let loose a wordless snarl and seemed to do battle deep within herself. Ever so slowly, the light began to fade until it winked out of existence at last. Sweat pricked Cassandra’s brow and trickled down her neck, and her chest heaved, cuirass rising and falling at her shoulders.

When Leliana took another small step forward, Cassandra lurched away. “I can’t–” she shook her head, voice ragged and torn. Then she fled in a swaying retreat, her fingers trembling so badly that she fumbled momentarily with the door before she managed to fling it open and vanish.

Alone in the dark room once more, lit only by a single remaining pale candle on the desk behind her. Sinking down into the chair, Leliana snatched her arm back before her elbow could knock over the well of ink on the table. Flickers of ink darted out on the table, staining the parchment, where it dried transparent. With a sigh, she leaned her elbows on her knees and dropped her head into her hands.

What a mess.

A soft knock sounded at the door, and Leliana’s head jerked up. For a brief moment there was the irrational hope that Cassandra had returned, flaring brightly in Leliana’s chest. When the door creaked open, however, it was Ines who poked her head inside.

“Your Worship?” Ines called out carefully, though she did not come fully inside. She lingered in the threshold as though afraid of entering, “Your agent has arrived.”

That must be Aldric. Nodding sharply, Leliana straightened her shoulders. “Tell him I will meet with him tomorrow morning in the Chantry.”

Ines murmured something low, but Leliana was no longer paying attention. She angled her body back to the table and picked up her stylus once more. The night was getting on in hours, but that did not deter her. There was always work to be done.


	5. Chapter 5

Normally, early morning before Lauds was one of Leliana’s favorite times of the day. Night still clung to the air like a burr, cottoning, chilly, onto the exposed skin of her face and hands as she walked the streets of Denerim. Shop owners were still readying their stalls for the morning market, and their murmuring slowed to a halt when she passed. They bowed, and she inclined her head in return, never slowing her pace. She wondered if they suspected it was she all those years ago who swapped their wares and caused mayhem between them.

Studying the fixed lines of their backs, the rigid, reverent, almost fearful way they watched her footsteps pass, Leliana knew they wouldn’t believe it even if she confessed to the whole thing herself. They would believe her an ex-assassin and spymaster, but they would never believe that she nailed someone’s unmentionables to a Chantry board.

The Divine had no such background, no such past. The Divine was above such things. The Divine was a symbol, a title, a beacon. She was the Maker’s scepter in this mortal world, and she was forged from cold, black, unfeeling iron.

Mouth twisted in a downturned slant, Leliana walked on. Aldric was waiting for her in the Chantry. She had no time to dwell on history long-buried. Yet as she continued, flanked by her omnipresent guards, she could shake neither past nor present. Like the early morning chill they cleaved to her like plaster, cracked and heavy.

Last night was a mistake. Just one more mistake in a long list that detailed the events of her life. She remembered vaguely a time when she thought the Maker had a plan for her, guiding her every step with intent.

This was far from her darkest hour. But what was it Adaia had called her back then, when the night seemed long and never-ending? “A light in the dark”?

“Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow,” Leliana murmured under her breath, too soft for her guards to hear. “In their blood the Maker’s will is written.”

She had to believe. Even when nobody else would. She had to believe in something good and pure and right.

Yet these days, the world did not treat the righteous kindly. Leliana dared not hope for something so simple as love. Not in times like these when shadows lengthened and heroes perished. First the Warden, who died laughing while she slew the Archdemon, gripped in the throes of bloodlust. Then Hawke, who pushed others from the Fade while she remained behind to face her demons alone.

Leliana knew what happened to heroes in these tales. The very last thing she wanted was for Cassandra to be a hero.

Maker knew she herself as far from one as it was possible to be. A hero? Her? Heroes should not enjoy killing as much as she did. Marjolaine did not have to push her very hard back then. When she fought her own shade at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, she could remember seeing her spectral face contorted in a rictus snarl and being frozen with fear. Was that really how she looked? Was that how everyone else saw her?

The Inquisitor had helped ground her to some extent, keeping her from killing Butler, from killing Natalie. Oh, how she had wanted to kill Natalie, the fire of treachery setting Leliana’s blood aflame, just like when she had cut down Raleigh and his men – laughing and fierce.

She was no hero. Not to mention her own less than pleasant history with love.

It was one thing for the Divine to have a lover on the side that everyone pretended was just another nameless Sister. People could and would overlook it. After all, the Divine was more than the sum of her humanity, but it was something else entirely for Cassandra. Cassandra was more than just a Sister. She was a Name – a Pentaghast, the Hero of Orlais, the Right Hand for over two decades.

What on earth was Leliana thinking?

Shaking her head – she had foregone the heavy mitre and instead wore a simple white veil like a hood streaked with a broad red stripe – Leliana approached the Chantry. One of her guards opened the door for her, and she entered.

The candles and braziers had not yet been lit, though incense muddled the shadowy hall with smoke. The cold from outside seeped through the stone walls; Leliana could feel it creeping up into her feet through the samite cloth of her shoes. Eyes sharpening, she swung her gaze around. Normally there were Sisters tending to these halls, readying the Chantry for Lauds, but now it was suspiciously devoid of people.

With a gesture to her guards, she did not move further into the hall, instead remaining near the door. Both guards moved their hands to their swords, alert.

“Aldric?” Leliana called out, keeping her tone neutral even as she felt for the hidden knife strapped to her forearm. Old habits die hard, and the voluminous robes she wore these days allowed for such things.

Through the air the familiar hiss of arrows sang, and Leliana ducked. Both her guards fell to the floor, their armour clanging and echoing to the rafters above, their unprotected necks fletched with arrows jutting over their collarbones. She spun and made a dash for the nearby door, but it closed with a grinding slam, barred from the outside. Slowly Leliana turned back around to face the darkened Chantry hall, keeping her weapon close but not yet drawn.

They could have killed her already, had they so wished. Her dead guards were evidence enough of that. Glancing up, Leliana could see men with bows and arrows trained on her. At least twelve that she could count. No, whoever it was wanted her alive.

For what purpose remained to be seen.

“Guess what I’ve learned, pretty thing?”

At the sound of that voice, Leliana’s blood ran cold. She knew that voice. Knew it all too well.

She stepped from the shadow of an archway, smoke curling from her feet and around her black hair in cecaelian tendrils, her eyes implacable and dark as the sea. Marjolaine was a dead woman – dead for nearly a decade – and yet there she stood, like a nightmare from the Fade, come to haunt Leliana beyond the afterlife.

–

Her mouth stung.

Dunking her head in the basin inside her quarters had done nothing. Neither had completely destroying a practice dummy outside, beating the broken remains of it with her shield when there was nothing left a blade could do. Cassandra noticed the far berth the sisters and guards were giving her as she stormed away from the pile of splintered wood and shredded sackcloth, but she didn’t spare them a second glance. Leliana’s lips were seared onto hers, the sensation lingering like a brand. How could everyone not see it, not see her?

The years had slipped away between them like sand. At first, it was because they were scarcely around one another, Justinia sending them in opposite directions to suit her purposes. Yet every time their paths crossed, Cassandra could remember half-reserved smiles and flirtation, comments she parried away without a second thought. She wasn’t opposed to the banter by its nature – what else would be expected from a bard, a woman who played the Game with such practiced hands – but there had always been moments when she had wondered if Leliana was in any way serious.

_Your duty comes first, Cassandra. Not your temper, not your heart._

Words from a Lord-Seeker, but they had been uttered to her in a hundred ways by a hundred others, trying to temper the fire that burned in her chest. Galyan was the only one who never chastised her for it, but it made sense. As a mage, he knew exactly what it was like to feel something wild in the blood, always wanting to break free and twist into sheer destruction. Without thinking, Cassandra gasped a prayer under her breath, wishing more than anything that he was alive to provide some measure of guidance. Maybe, he could have even seen the demon haunting her, given it a name.

They had been lovers once, in a simple and sweet way. Mercifully uncomplicated.

Cassandra couldn’t cull one emotion from the next out of the tangle of her chest now, not sure whether to be angry at herself or Leliana, who to curse or blame. No matter what she wanted, it was simply impossible. An abomination didn’t belong within a stone’s throw of the Chantry, much less at the Divine’s side, and yet here they were, forcing such mad possibilities to cleave together. Her feet carried her to the private chapel without rhyme or reason, forcing each step as she kept her head low and bit back the urge to draw her blade.

It was a small place, just one corner in Denerim’s castle for those who passed through the gates to offer alms or light a candle. Only two benches rested before the altar, all the trappings made of bronze instead of gold, but the floor was swept clean by a dutiful servant, stained glass scoured of dust and cobwebs. With the Divine’s entourage in tow, Cassandra knew she could pray on silk rugs and breathe in incense imported from Antiva with a Grand Cleric saying the chant over her shoulder, but that wasn’t what she wanted.

Wealth had always made her uncomfortable, so often as it was intertwined with death.

Unclipping her belt, Cassandra hung her sword from the small rack by the door, leaning her shield below it against the wall. She wasn’t praying as a warrior of the Maker, but as a penitent, and it didn’t feel right to kneel while armed as such. Once the door to the chapel was closed, she approached the altar with reverent steps, dropping down to its height when it was in reach. The candles were untouched, wicks barely clipped, and it took a moment for the steel to light them, a small dribble of wax pouring down from each one. When Cassandra placed the incense, it was a touch easier, burning clean through the air as she took a breath.

“The one who repents, who has faith, unshaken by the darkness of the world, she shall know true peace.” Pressing her hands together, Cassandra murmured the words, calling up the verses engrained as deeply as her own name. “Many are those who wander in sin, despairing that they are lost forever, but the one who repents, who has faith unshaken by the darkness of the world and boasts not, nor gloats over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes delight in the Maker’s law and creations, she shall know the peace of the Maker’s benediction.”

She drew in a sharp breath, struggling not to stumble over the syllables.

“The Light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world, and into the next. For she who trusts in the Maker–” Tears strained at the edges of Cassandra’s eyes, making her throat tighten. “–who trusts–”

“Why have You left me?” One mailed fist struck the edge of the altar, rattling the bronze sheaths holding the candles in place. “When my parents were executed, I felt You there. When my brother died, I felt You there. Barely years from being a child myself, and You sent me to kill a dragon and protect the Divine. I struck down traitors and maleficar, I gave my life to the Seekers and the Chantry both without question, without fear.”

“If I have somehow forsaken You, judge me!” The words were loud enough to echo off the stone, but she didn’t care. She wanted to be heard. “Tell me why I’ve been cast aside, why I’m alone. Please.”

_You are not alone._

Cassandra jerked away from the altar, hands pressing in on either side of her skull. “Leave me be, demon!”

_You have never been alone. Since the day you were made Tranquil._

“It was reversed.” No matter how tight her grip, the sound refused to be cut out, echoing inside her head. “Undone so I could serve the Seekers.”

_So it was to be, but the spirit they summoned saw you were meant for something more._

“What are you?” Desperation wrenched the question out of Cassandra’s throat, the stained glass in front of her spinning into a blur of color. Her entire body ached, cutting straight to the bone. “For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water. As the moth sees light and goes toward flame, she should see fire and go towards Light–”

_The Veil holds no uncertainty for her._

The next verse died on Cassandra’s lips, turning bitter. She could see blue fire reflecting in the bronze of the candles and squeezed her eyes shut. “A Seeker cannot be possessed. How have you done this?”

_I was that spirit, Cassandra. I looked upon you, and when I laid hands on you, I did not leave._

_It was an accident. I crossed the Veil and found myself within._

“An accident?” Even uttering the words, she could barely grasp the thought. “Why are you lying? Why are you telling me this?”

_You were a perfect vessel. As you rose from the Rite, I realized I had found my place._

“Show me then!” There was no mirror here, no true reflective surface, but perhaps this would be enough to coax it from her skin. “Show me what you are.”

_I cannot. Were you to look upon me, I would become the demon that you fear._

_Mortal eyes shape us and twist us. If you do not believe my words with all that you are, Pride will take you._

“Then why do you speak to me now?” Cassandra felt cool stone against her brow as she cast her head down, swallowing a grimace. “If you have been here for so long.”

_In the Fade when Justinia appeared before you, when I was shrouded away, doubt came to roost._

_I should have shown myself to you then, proved you were still on a righteous path, but I did not. Even where you have forgiven mages, Cassandra, the very thought of a spirit’s touch frightens you._

_And we began to split apart._

“Because I was lied to.” Cassandra whispered, trying to breathe past the agony of it talking through her. “By the Seekers, by the Templars. Even the Chantry. If that were not enough, I failed Justinia. She died without me at her side.”

_Your loyalty was without measure, Cassandra. That was not your failure._

“You would whisper any honeyed words to convince me of this farce.” She snarled, but the grinding echo between her temples twisted the noise into a cry of pain. “Even now, you seek to break me.”

_I cannot stop it from hurting you as long as you resist. You cut against your own soul in the process._

_Please, listen!_

Cassandra grit her teeth. “I will not.”

_Will the life of Divine Victoria not sway you?_

“Threaten her again and I will go to the highest point of this castle and jump.” If she had to fall on her sword halfway through the air, then that would be done as well. “I will break your vessel into a thousand pieces.”

_I am not the one who threatens her, Cassandra. It is another. Now!_

“What?” Staggering to her feet, Cassandra shouted toward the glass, where she could see the flames in her eyes glowing like a torch’s blaze. “Who? Do not dare to lie to me.”

_Her name is Marjolaine. Death follows in her wake._

–

“I killed you.”

Swift jab beneath the ribs. The hot sting of blood on her wrist. Marjolaine clutching at her shoulder as she slipped to the floor. The scent of her perfume lingering on Leliana’s clothes for days afterwards. In the end she’d burned them. Leliana remembered it all so vividly.

After the Warden had let Marjolaine go, Leliana had tracked her down when the Blight no longer loomed over Thedas on black wings. She had killed her in the far northern reaches of Orlais, in the city of Serault. While not one of her proudest moments, even she knew at the time that killing Marjolaine as she’d done had been sloppy, and word of the deed crept out to the Marquis’ ears.

In Leliana’s mind it had been worth it – Justinia could handle a little blackmail.

“I know you did, sweet thing.” Marjolaine was dressed in silver-trimmed finery, standing beside the altar like a Revered Mother ready to lead a congregation in prayer. Her mouth formed a small moue, mocking. “I heard you weeping afterwards. Did you truly miss me so?”

Leliana’s back pressed into the heavy wood of the Chantry doors. Flanked by bowmen and pillars of smoke from the incense burners, Marjolaine seemed sharper than in Leliana’s memories. Whetted by shadow, her eyes dark and bewitching. Keener, yet somehow exactly the same.

Leliana should have used a poisoned dagger. Plain steel wasn’t enough, a touch of mercy was too much.

“It’s incredible what feats of healing mages can accomplish, no?” Marjolaine pulled aside an overlapping section of her clothes to reveal the pale scar on her abdomen. “But don’t worry, you won’t be needing their services. I have absolutely no intention of killing you.” She smiled that familiar old briery smile, and Leliana shivered. “Corpses give me no leverage.”

Mouth dry, Leliana nevertheless managed to draw herself up and step away from the door, moving slowly down the aisle. Perhaps if she could get close enough– “The world already knows the Divine is a killer, Marjolaine.”

With a dismissive wave, Marjolaine scoffed, “Oh, I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about your beloved Seeker.”

Stopping near the other side of the altar, Leliana merely cocked her head, but silently she was thanking the Maker for all her years of espionage. “What about her?”

This close, Leliana could see the years more clearly on Marjolaine’s face, in the corners of her eyes and mouth. In spite of that she remained as enthralling as ever; time had only honed her to a fine, severe edge.

Smirking, Marjolaine reached into a hidden fold of her skirts and pulled out a worn slip of parchment. “Your man, Aldric, wouldn’t talk. You choose your spies well, sweet thing. Loyal to the bitter end. But unfortunately for him, he’d already written a report.” With a flourish, she flicked open the folded report, but didn’t look at it, her eyes remaining fixed on the real prize at hand just across the altar. “Imagine my surprise! Your precious Pentaghast, your tame dragon-killer, is an abomination! What will the people think?”

She tutted, a staccato ticking of her tongue, and Leliana could not keep her shoulders from squaring instinctively. Running her fingers over the knife strapped to her forearm, her eyes darted from Marjolaine to the bowmen. There were too many of them. She could never make it in time, and Marjolaine would only enjoy watching her struggle. Marjolaine never did relish pain to strangers, only to those she knew. She’d eaten hearts and declared them the sweetest food. _It’s so much more fun to hurt someone when it’s personal._

“The saddest thing, my dear,” Marjolaine continued, refolding the paper and tucking it away once more, “is that it appears the Seeker is quite in love with you. She looks at you like you’re the sun and stars all put together. And you always did wear your heart on your sleeve.” Her gaze flicked to Leliana’s forearms, as though she knew what was hidden there, as though she wished Leliana would try something desperate.

“That’s not true,” Leliana said, her voice soft and hoarse.

At that, Marjolaine laughed, rich like brass, like a sundry lai. “I taught you to lie so much better. Are you really so blind? You were always such a romantic, my Leliana. You loved the dashing sort, deep down. More than any Game or any player in it.” Suddenly she clapped her hands together, the sound ringing out through the shadowy Chantry, hollow. “But enough of pleasantries! Let’s talk business.”

The animated amusement on Marjolaine’s face made Leliana’s jaw ache. Leliana forced her teeth to unclench, enough to ask, “What is it that you want?”

“It’s simple really.” Marjolaine crossed her arms and shrugged, lowering her chin so that she was looking up at Leliana through her eyelashes, coquettish enough to make Leliana’s skin crawl. “You have retained a vacant position on your staff. I want the job.”

For a moment Leliana frowned, confused. Until she realized what Marjolaine was talking about. “No.”

Marjolaine’s smile widened. “Oh, yes.”

_The Left Hand._

Just the thought of Marjolaine being at her side for the remainder of her days with this sort of secret hanging over the Sunburst Throne like a sword held by a thread – it made Leliana’s stomach twist. She would haunt Leliana’s every motion, her every waking moment, as though she really were a spirit that had crossed over through the veil to hound her in death as she had in life.

“I’ve already made the announcement that the Divine will have only one sole hand. With all ceremony. The Empress attended.” Leliana insisted. She knew desperation was leaking into her words, but she was powerless to stop it.

Marjolaine grimaced and nodded. “I know. And it’s a terrible precedent. Luckily for you, you’ve found the perfect solution. Between my old contacts and your spy network, we could have my pronouncement as Left Hand circulated across Thedas in less than a week.” Her eyes glittered, black as poison. “It will be just like old times.”

Leliana swallowed. When Marjolaine took a step forward, she had to resist the urge to move back, away from her. In an instant Marjolaine was upon her, standing so close the soft whisper of their hems brushed around their ankles. It was with a sickening flash of memory that Leliana recognised that after all these years Marjolaine still favoured the same perfume, the faint undertone of warm chrism.

Voice low, Marjolaine gripped Leliana’s chin in her hand, yanking her closer, and hissed, “I would have left you alone before all of this.” She gestured to where Leliana had stabbed her in the gut, where she should have twisted the blade. “But then you had to go and make it _personal_.”

–

“Where is the Divine?!” Cassandra snapped, grabbing the first guard by his collar. Metal creaked under her fingers, the strap holding his gorget in place about to split apart.

Grey eyes went wide under the brim of the man’s decorated helmet, sweat gathered at his brow. “I swear I haven’t seen her, Champion, not for the whole day!”

“Then who is with her? A full unit of guards is assigned to Her Perfection in my absence without exception!” She shoved him back, nearly hard enough to crack the wall. “Someone has to have seen her, wrapped in gold under the damned sun.”

“I thought I saw Most Holy going into the Chantry building earlier,” his partner suddenly croaked, hands clutching onto a broad-necked spear for dear life, “but it didn’t make sense, Seeker. No one else was with her, so I thought it had to be a supplicant. A Revered Mother, someone else! From behind it was impossible to tell.”

“And you didn’t follow her to see?” Cassandra snarled.

“I did, by my honor, but I was stopped at the doors.” The guard put a fist to his chest, right over the sunburst. “Two men in Victoria’s colors barred my entry, told me she was meeting someone of the cloth. I wasn’t sure it was true, Seeker, but I know s-she used to be the Left Hand. I thought I was being told to turn the other cheek.”

“Was anyone with her?” Cassandra squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, trying to picture Marjolaine’s face. Leliana had only described her a few times, drawn a sketch only meant for Justinia’s sight. “A human woman. Dark hair, probably down to her shoulders, brown eyes. A stranger, never someone you’d see in our camp.”

“Not with her, but–” He shook his head, as if to jostle the memory back in place. “–perhaps an hour before. She was accompanied and dressed well, I thought nothing of it. One of the companions said her name!”

Cassandra prayed for a blessing, just one more. “What was it?”

“M-Marjolaine.”

_She awaits you, Seeker._

“Quiet, spirit.” Cassandra spit under her breath.

She ran. The Chantry wasn’t far, but it felt like miles when her skull was still wracked with pain, trying to make sense of what the guards had said. Marjolaine was dead, uttered as such by Leliana’s lips years before, and why would she have cause to lie? By all accounts, the woman was a traitor of the highest order, spilling blood for the Game as often as for her own amusement, and had a hundred dark threads woven through royal bloodlines and religious orders ready to be pulled at any moment. Yet Cassandra could feel the truth in her bones with the same weight of sword and shield in her hands, growing more powerful with every step.

Both men the guard had spoken of were in front of the doors, arms crossed and muttering between themselves; not the behavior of the Divine’s finest by far, and their faces were unfamiliar, uniforms too clean to have made it through the long trip to Denerim. Not to mention the wicked-looking knife sticking out of the back of one’s boot.

“Open the doors.” She ordered.

“Who do you think you are, eh?” The closest man’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “Move along before we make you, ser. The Divine will hear your prayers another day.”

For some reason, Cassandra couldn’t help but smile in turn, baring her teeth. “I am her champion.”

Before either of them could draw a blade, she lashed out, slamming her shield upward into the first man’s jaw. His head wrenched back in a short arc, hitting the door with a dull thud that sent him sprawling to the ground a second later, knees absent feeling and consciousness cut short. The other got as far as gripping the hilt at his hip before Cassandra turned the sword in her hands, driving the pommel right in the soft center of his throat. He gagged and choked, pink-flecked spittle dripping down his chin as he collapsed, knocked cold with another blunt but solid strike to the top of his head.

The urge to kill them had boiled in her gut, but if Marjolaine managed to escape, there had to be someone left to interrogate. If neither of them had a word to say, Leliana could oversee their executions.

Cassandra forced the doors open with a brute shove, ignoring the screech of ancient hinges before her boots hit polished stone. Dim candlelight and incense brought a sudden shift to her senses, adjusting to the shadows and bitter tang, but Leliana was before the altar with a woman that could only be Marjolaine. She looked raven-born, beautiful but starved and ready to feast, be it upon the dead or the living. There were no weapons between the pair that she could see, no glint of steel or vial of poison, and rage drove her forward into the center of the chantry, ignited by the violation.

Once over wine, Leliana had explained the depth of betrayal it had taken to return her to the Chantry, the torture that brought her near madness and the razor’s edge of faith. All of it was wrought by those hands, the same that now tipped up Leliana’s chin, as if demanding she offer supplication.

Dark eyes met hers, then Leliana’s, pure and blue. Outrage instantly turned to fear.

“Cassandra, no!”

A chorus of bowstrings sung, echoing one another before Cassandra felt three arrows sink into her shield, and another two landing side by side in the arm grasping her sword. The last buried itself in one thigh, right above the guard over her knee and under the chainmail draped below protective leather. Pain blossomed through both limbs, staggering her midstep, and Cassandra let out a roar of defiance before forcing her shield upward to try and blunt the next volley. A trio of arrows struck wood, but the rest pierced through her back, all aimed true. She could hear where the archers stood now, balanced on the rafters from all sides.

Her knee gave with the next step, even as the shaft impaling it cracked in two. Cassandra blotted out the warring pulses of agony even as the room began to darken and blur, blood rising on the back of her tongue. Half-bowed, she dragged that leg forward, bringing her sword down for the sake of desperate balance. Hobbling steps took her past one wooden pew, then another, before the strings drew taut in unison once more. Leliana’s eyes glittered with unshed tears, shock holding her stone-still, and yet they stayed open when the arrows loosed again.

Cassandra’s cry of pain was cut short when one sliced deep into her lungs, the next breath drawn in ending on a wet gasp. Where the others landed, she couldn’t say, except to know there were enough that both legs refused to move, and she collapsed down onto the arm that still held out, the back of her shield stained with dripping red, spilling from her mouth like an endless flood. Her sword clattered to the ground, fingers grasping at stone for some sort of purchase, enough to bring her to the steps before the altar, to the hem of sacred robes.

Darkness ate through her vision, and then dwindled down to a single blue spark.


	6. Chapter 6

Iron and incense scented the air, and Leliana felt her heart beat in her throat, thunder in her ears. Cassandra’s hand went limp, fingers tangling in the robes at Leliana’s ankles, staining the cloth a rich red. The breath shuddered in her lungs when Leliana inhaled to steady herself, but her lower lip trembled, and she had to bite back a wave of hot tears.

She couldn’t be dead. Not yet. Not like this.

Sinking slowly to her knees, Leliana reached out but did not touch, her hand hovering just over Cassandra’s silverite-clad shoulder, careful to avoid the arrow fletches sprouting all across her body. The air between them seemed to shiver, electric and alive, like the taste of recent lightning on the back of her tongue.

No flash of blue. No undying light to signal the spirit’s presence. Yet Leliana could not give up hope now. There had to be a way.  _Maker, let there be a way. Let her live._

A sob hitched in Leliana’s chest, and she pulled back her hand, raising it to her mouth as though to push the sound back inside.

Behind her Marjolaine made a soft tsk against the roof of her mouth, and when she spoke her voice ripe with feigned sympathy. “Oh, sweet thing. Don’t cry. Think of it this way: You have yet another open position on your staff. Another bright opportunity in the name of progress.”

She stepped closer so as to push back Leliana’s veil and card long fingers through her coppery hair, nails dragging sharply against her scalp. “But don’t worry your pretty head about the details. I have ideas on who can best fill that role. That’s why you hired me, no?”

Even without looking up, her head bowed, Leliana could see the smirk, hear it in Marjolaine’s voice. When Marjolaine’s nails scratched at the base of her neck, she couldn’t hide a corresponding wince, shoulders tensing as Marjolaine gathered up a fistful of her hair only to release it and begin her combing anew.

Swallowing past an obstruction in her throat, Leliana croaked, “I want to be alone with her. Just for a moment.”

“But of course,” Marjolaine cooed, soft and throaty. With a brusque dismissive wave, she sent the archers away, and they filed out of the Chantry without question or hesitation. When Leliana shot a reproachful look at her, Marjolaine gave a harsh bark of laughter. “You had best grow used to my presence, Leliana. This is as alone as you will ever get again.”

Turning her attention back to Cassandra, Leliana cautiously brushed her fingertips across the feathers along one arrow jutting from Cassandra’s shoulder – buried just above her heart.”So many years,” Leliana murmured, slowly withdrawing her hand and rising to her feet.

Arms crossing over her stomach, she kept her face downturned, gaze fixed on the smear of blood across her hems, the pool of it beneath Cassandra’s body. “I spent so many years with her by my side as Right and Left hands of the Divine. At first there was no love between us, but always there was respect. And even at my worst – even when I was swathed in the guise of the Nightingale, then the Seneschal – she was something to aspire to, always reminding me of what was right and good and unfailingly just. Everything that you were not. You – my first love. And this my last.”

At that Leliana turned her gaze upon Marjolaine, who watched her the way a raven watches a slain body upon the fields of war, her eyes glittering, merciless and dark.  

“I must confess my disappointment,” Marjolaine replied, mocking. “I’d heard so much about your endeavors while I was away. The whole of southern Thedas feared you, my contacts said. You were powerful and calculating and a master of The Game, they told me. So when I planned this, I had thought to be met with a challenge.” She finished with a sneer and a disdainful flick of her eyes up and down Leliana’s body. “You may have risen far, but time has made you weak, Leliana.”

“You’re wrong.” Leliana countered. “Time has made me kind.”

In spite of her words, her voice had swooped to a low dangerous note, and any trace of tears had vanished. Marjolaine opened her mouth to respond, but at the look on Leliana’s face she faltered and a small furrow creased her brows.

The wheels were turning, the first faint hints of confusion painting Marjolaine’s face. Leliana knew what she must look like, the implacable will in her expression, the coldness in her eyes. Long ago she’d seen the look before on the face of her shadow at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, wintry and unyielding.

“Sending your archers away was a mistake, Marjolaine, though not your worst.” Leliana did nothing to try to hide the trenchant tone in her voice. “No, your greatest mistake was coming here at all.”

Marjolaine’s hand flew to behind her hip to pull out a hidden blade, but in a flash Leliana drew the knife at her forearm and slashed. With a cry, the blade clattered to the ground and Marjolaine clutched at her injured wrist, blood seeping through the cracks in her fingers. In the same motion, Leliana had her knife pressed against the soft flesh of Marjolaine’s throat. With her other hand she grabbed Marjolaine’s shoulder, pushing against her so that the small of her back pressed against the hard stone edge of the altar.

“Your other mistake was the Gnawed Noble. Master Ignacio and the Blackstone Irregulars?” Leliana dug her hands painfully into Marjolaine’s shoulder until Marjolaine’s spine bent over the altar. “Did you really think I would not notice? Destabilising my support among the College of Enchanters was easy enough to spot. But picking Taoran as my next Right Hand?”

Leliana gave a derisive sneer. “A poor choice. I would have gone for Arl Wulff or even the Huntress of Serault if I were truly desperate. At least they have names worth mentioning in court.”

With a smile like a grimace, Marjolaine said, “You always were my best student. But even noticing it now is not enough to save you. Events are in motion. No amount of those peace talks you’re so fond of can right this, sweet thing.”

One of Leliana’s eyebrows tilted upwards. “Events were in motion. I put a stop to them days ago, when my agents first told me of them. Taolan never even made it to the College. If there’s one thing he respects more than money, it’s fear. And I had one of my agents strike the fear of Andraste in his heart. I’m told that these days he is most devout.”

Marjolaine swallowed, and the motion drew a narrow line of blood from the knife, trickling down her neck and staining the fine gossamer silk of her gown. Still she managed a huff of incredulous laughter, her face twisting into a snarl when Leliana pressed the blade closer. “Will you cry over my dead body again, Leliana? Will the redoubtable nightingale sing a dirge for me?”

Leliana tightened her grip on the knife. “I may be kind, but to the corrupt and wicked I am not merciful.”

Then with a swift and smooth slice, she carved a line across Marjolaine’s neck.

A spray of blood flooded beneath Marjolaine’s chin, wounding, dyeing them both black. Leliana released her grip on Marjolaine’s shoulder but did not step back. There was a faint gurgle as Marjolaine’s body slumped against the altar, and weakly she grasped at Leliana’s robes to keep herself from falling, even as she collapsed to her knees at Leliana’s feet as though in supplication. The front of her dress was painted with a river of blood, and as she fell it spread from the altar like a curtain, draping the aisle to drip down the first row of steps.

For a moment Leliana just stood there, breathing raggedly, the handle of the knife slicked with blood between her trembling fingers. When she turned, her feet slipped on the gore sloped across the stone slabs. She caught herself on the altar, and when she pushed herself off to stumble towards Cassandra’s motionless body, she left crimson handprints in her wake.

As carefully as she could, she used the knife to snap the arrows along Cassandra’s back so she could turn her over in her arms without further damage. She had refrained from touching her directly before, but now Leliana cast the knife aside and laid her stained hand upon Cassandra’s cold cheek.

There was no flash of light. No spark of enduring life.

“No–” Leliana gasped, removing her hand and placing it upon Cassandra again in the vain hope that it would change anything, rather than merely leave broad streaks of blood across her skin.

Tears burned her eyes. Shoulders shaking, Leliana bowed her head and bit back a sob.

“Let the blade pass through the flesh,” she mumbled to herself, clutching Cassandra’s limp form closer, running her hands desperately through her hair to rest gently at the back of her neck. “Let my blood touch the ground. Let mine be the last sacrifice. Not her. Please, not her–”

The morning light began to drift through the camed windows, washing along the shadowy corners of the Chantry. Smoke drifted in the air, caught in the slant of sunlight like motes of glittering dust.

“ _Let my body become ash_.”

Jerking her head up, Leliana’s gaze darted across Cassandra’s face. Her eyes were open, her pupils dim pin-pricks of blue light. “You’re alive –!”

“ _That is her wis_ h.” The spirit spoke with Cassandra’s mouth, but the voice was haunting, forcing a human tongue to inhuman will. “ _Burn this mortal vessel so that no spirit nor demon may possess it_.”

“No.” Leliana shook her head furiously, hands digging into the hard ridges of Cassandra’s plate armour. “No, I won’t let you die. Not like this. You will not die alone upon these steps as I did. I cannot – I need you.”

“ _This body is broken, and I am too weak to mend it. At this stage it is not worth saving_.”

“No one is without worth.” Conviction rang in her voice, unwavering, unquenchable. “I have to believe that.”

There followed a pause, a long quiet in which all that existed was silence and the frantic beating of Leliana’s heart. And then–

“ _For you_ ,” the spirit whispered “ _I will try_.”

–

Everything was cold, the bitter edge of it settled deep into her bones. Cassandra felt that before the recognition of her own breath, the stuttered rise and fall as much as a shock as the slow rhythm of the heart behind it. Tension flared behind her eyes as she tried to open them, but by degrees they slowly obeyed, only to reveal darkness. Bit by bit, shadows revealed an outline here and there, sight adjusting as best it could, and Cassandra saw that she was covered.

Said covering swayed subtly, and beyond the curtains there were boots crunching on the earth, the slip of leather and steel from armor in motion. She was stretched out from head to toe, the realization dizzying before some sense of balance returned, but trying to raise her head sent a wave of agony through the rest of her body, blotting out the shadows with the white light of pain.

“Are they carrying me like I’m in a damned reliquary?” Her voice rasped, too dry to raise above a whisper.

_Be at peace, Seeker. Your body has been healing for days._

Recoil twisted in the pit of Cassandra’s stomach at the voice, the lightest reflection of blue against the enclosure of the palanquin forcing her eyes shut again. Even dead – or nearly so – and the spirit hadn’t ceased to be, fled to the Fade to seek a new host. She took stock of her body as best she could in the absence of light, flexing toes and fingers, but despite the answering stiffness and harrowing fatigue, everything seemed to be where it was before. Even with magic, the wounds should have been too deep to survive and yet–

_Divine Victoria interceded on your behalf. I held your flesh still, your blood calm until the healers came near._

“Leliana.” The name stung her tongue almost like a curse, but Cassandra’s heart seized in her chest, the ache there too strong to deny. “She should have let me fall.”

_I told her that was your desire, Seeker, but she yet persisted. She said she would not leave you to die as she had once been left. It was unthinkable._

“Cassandra.” A gentle voice carried past the curtain, lilting and familiar. “Are you awake?”

She blinked, wishing there was water to assuage the terrible stickiness on the back of her tongue. “Cole?”

_Compassion has walked with us the whole way. He will see you to where the Temple of Sacred Ashes once stood, where the Veil is thin._

“Here.” One pale hand darted into the palanquin, leaving behind a roll of bread wrapped in cheesecloth and a bulbous waterskin before the light from the opening of the curtain could blind her. “I saved you breakfast. Please sleep.”

Reaching for the water lit Cassandra’s back aflame until the sore muscle eased, but she fumbled it to her open mouth, drinking as quickly as she dared. “Thank you, Cole.”

“Should I tell her you’re awake?” He spoke in a whisper so soft she was sure her carriers couldn’t hear him. Considering Cole’s nature, it was possible they couldn’t even see him at all.

Cassandra frowned. “Does Leliana not know?”

“She wasn’t sure you would open your eyes. We’re walking the path your friend asked for.” Cole said.

“What did you tell her, spirit?” Anger bloomed in her gut, heart jumping in pace.

_That all would be revealed. Eat while your body allows, Seeker, then sleep. You will need the energy to stand before them all._

“All of who?” Cassandra asked, eyelids already starting to flutter closed again. Eating seemed like an impossible task, suddenly.

_The faithful, Cassandra. A pilgrimage follows your sacrifice._

If not for the pain, she would have laughed. In disbelief, in fear, for the sheer madness of a thousand moments leading to this one. “Oh.”

–

It was night when Cassandra’s eyes opened again. The sensation of the palanquin lowering made her gorge rise, but then everything was still, chatter between the guards held at a respectful murmur as other footsteps approached. Pins and needles erupted in one of her calves, the urge to kick outward building in seconds, but she settled for carefully flexing the same knee, rotating her ankle until the feeling faded.

Leliana’s voice bid her still, but Cole’s meandering reply forced a smile to tug at the edge of Cassandra’s mouth.

“She’s awake, I promise.” Cole murmured. “And the wanderer is still with her.”

_What a quaint title. I suppose it is fitting._

Cassandra pulled a face at the spirit’s reply, but before she could growl anything back, the curtain was thrown back, and Leliana was there, doubt speared by relief in an instant. The heaviest of her vestments were gone, replaced with a simple white robe, the Chantry’s symbol written across it in crimson thread. It was the outfit of a penitent, not the Divine, but Cassandra had the fleeting thought that it suited her. For all that Leliana had an enjoyment of some finer things, frivolities and parties, her belief had always been straightforward, so earnest it alarmed those who considered worshipping the Maker more of a duty than a calling.

“Cassandra.” Tears welled in Leliana’s eyes before they were banished with care, a hard but inaudible swallow. “You’re alive.”

Was she? Cassandra wasn’t sure how much of her body was indebted to the spirit’s grace, if its absence would split the seams narrowly holding her together. “That’s one word for it.”

“I’m sorry.” It was gasped like a confession, ragged and raw. “For Marjolaine, for–”

Gripping at the edge of the palanquin, Cassandra pushed until she was sitting halfway upwards, even as the strength in her arm threatened to fail, trembling harshly. “It seems to be my destiny to pass by death with every new Divine. I should expect it by now.”

A light laugh spilled from Leliana’s lips, cut off a second later, but the brewing tension waned with the sound. “She’s dead. I made sure of it.”

Between those words were a thousand things unsaid. From all Cassandra had gleaned, Marjolaine’s abuse and manipulation had been relentless, driving Leliana to all manner of dark deeds, not only to please her, but then to escape. To finally be sure the woman was dead must have brought out a peculiar kind of grief, but now was neither the time nor place to speak of it.

“Then why are we here?” Past the line of torches around the camp, Cassandra could only make out so much of the surrounding mountains. They were on the path to the temple’s ruin to be sure, but she couldn’t pinpoint their location on a map. “What bargain did you make?”

“None.” Leliana shook her head. “You were on your deathbed, and any attempted assassination of the Divine spreads like wildfire. I told the Chantry I would trust in the Maker to make you whole again. I would show them I was unafraid to walk amongst the people, even after such a danger had threatened us.”

“It’s _not_  the Maker.” Cassandra hissed. “It’s–”

“There was no demon waiting to spring out of you, Cassandra.” Leliana bit her lip, guilt revealed in a flicker along her jaw. “I asked it to save you and it did, for no price. The only reason it asked to come to the Temple was so it would be stronger, powerful enough to keep you here.”

Inside her head, the spirit was silent, and that terrified her more than anything else. “How can you trust it?”

“I trust in the Maker to protect you as He always has.” The smallest smile emerged, so fragile Cassandra thought it would crack at any moment. “Don’t you?”

“I–” Now it felt as if she herself were about to cry. “I want to.”

Leliana’s hand cupped her cheek, thumb framing the old scar there where it began. “Are you well enough to stand? You’ve slept long enough on that awful thing.”

Warmth spread outward from the touch, gentle as a balm. “How far do I have to walk?”

“I’ll have them set my tent here.” For all that the camp had made headway, Cassandra hadn’t missed how there were no witnesses to this conversation. A dozen righteous servants had to be waiting elsewhere, awaiting the Divine’s command. “So not very far.”

Protest rose up to Cassandra’s tongue in an instant, about what people would say – or whisper at a distance, when they thought themselves out of earshot – but the rest of her was too relieved to make the words spring forth past her lips. So much was left unsaid, but Leliana would be patient, draw from that well she had in abundance. Cassandra had been jealous of such restraint in the past, yet now, there was nothing but a grateful fire flourishing under her skin, the same loyalty that bound her here in the beginning.

“Thank you.” It wasn’t a  _yes_ , but it didn’t have to be. “Leliana.”

There was a pregnant pause after the wary whisper of her name, but Leliana smiled after the syllables sank in. Her hand fell away, breaking the contact between them, although the heat held steady, like a ward of protection against the night’s chill. Cassandra watched as the camp was called into action, listened to every awed whisper as they caught sight of her, the dead resurrected before their eyes.

None of that made her as nervous as when Leliana shepherded her into the tent with one arm braced to prevent any stumbling, or when careful fingers checked the bandages beneath her loose tunic. A few of them were replaced, the bloody remnants discarded, and it was in the silence of those moments that Cassandra saw the chest with her armor and blade set beside Leliana’s possession, the shield leaning against it pockmarked from where so many arrows had struck.

“I had everything repaired.” Leliana said, wiping salve from her hands with a small bit of cloth. “I thought you would prefer that to having it replaced.”

“I do.” The lantern in the corner was starting to gutter, in need of oil if its light were to remain. “There is some sentimental value.”

“Good.” Leliana leaned over to the lantern, wetting her fingers between her lips so the flame could be extinguished with a pinch. “Are you ready to sleep? The morning we have to come will be here soon enough.”

Cassandra let out a slow breath. It didn’t sting, not like before. “Yes.”

In the dark, she found her pillow, the one that had been set beside Leliana’s. Belonging to the Divine as it did, one could scarcely call the cushioned surface they lay on a bedroll, wide enough to need four men to carry, but it was so comfortable Cassandra found it hard to critique the luxury, even if they were in the middle of a mountain pass. Leliana drew a blanket up over them both and turned onto her side, slowly enough that Cassandra knew she was going to press against her back a moment before it happened.

One arm encircled her hip and went still, demanding nothing and yet so very present. It was strange in a thousand ways, an intimacy she had only ever allowed one other person, breaking every sense of reason when that simple touch made the world feel stable again.

The spirit was quiet, but a certain energy still thrummed under her skin, waiting to ignite.

–

With the dawn came proof that she had vastly underestimated the size of the camp. The Divine’s caravan was as large and sprawling as ever, but those who followed outnumbered them three times over. Fishermen and blacksmiths were standing beside noblemen and the knighted, watching as the Chantry procession was put together, soon to call them to prayer. Cassandra did her morning ablutions and ate breakfast in peace, concealed inside the tent, but when Leliana’s attendants came to get the Divine dressed, so came the painful task of donning her armor.

Perhaps it was foolish to go to all the trouble, but Cassandra was already on edge enough for what all of this would mean to walk empty-handed and vulnerable out to the temple. Yet the whispers she heard building through the crowd were not suspicious or worrisome, but almost a chant in itself, hundreds of voices murmuring that the closer they had gotten to the Temple, the greater the Maker’s blessing had become.

She could see why it appeared that way. It was true that she had recovered along their trek, but that was the blessing of time rather than His will. After the relentless march of death that followed in Corypheus’ wake, almost any good tiding could appear like a miracle. Everyone who saw her offered a greeting or a blessing, from the young guardsman who murmured ‘good to see you on your feet again, champion’ to the bard who immediately burst into song, his verse beginning with details of her royal lineage and starting to travel down the generations. Cassandra did her best to refrain from rolling her eyes, forcing a smile in his direction before joining Leliana at the head of the procession.

The wind here was harsh, shearing off the mountains with a cold edge, but once they settled on the stone path, Cassandra could see their trek wasn’t too terribly far. A bitter hint of ash lingered in the air when she breathed in, proof of the ruin that remained, stone scorched black before demons had crawled from the rifts, red lyrium jutting upward like demonic pikes. To think years before the Warden had disgraced Andraste’s name here, spilled Leliana’s blood, and now they both made to approach it again, where death made its stamp deep enough to scar the earth.

“There’s nothing left.” Cassandra said under her breath, just loud enough for Leliana’s well-attuned ear. “Where are we even supposed to stand?”

“It’s like walking over someone’s grave, isn’t it?” Sorrow suffused the words, but it was old and so very familiar. “But the faithful are drawn here over and over.”

A ragged Inquisition banner fluttered in the wind when they reached what was left of a shattered peak, stand embedded in a pile of gathered rubble. The sign nailed beneath it warned travelers to turn back for their safety, but when Cassandra glanced back over her shoulder, not a single member of the camp even hesitated. They followed as she and Leliana stepped onto a blackened plane, stygian shapes curving upward with the bones of the Temple, the oldest columns of its frame that remained. There were no bones or demonic corpses, no broken weapons or abandoned armor; it was like a slate wiped clean, scoured by an unseen hand.

At the farthest end, Cassandra could make out something balanced on the edge of the cliff, and squinted to focus on it. The faint rise of steps emerged as if they’d been cut from obsidian, leading to a bench – no, an altar. Whatever sacred objects had lay on it before the temple was blasted to pieces were long gone, leaving behind nothing but flecks of melted gold. Leliana stopped short at the sight, arm rising to halt the procession, and Cassandra felt a pull in the center of her chest, like someone had just seized her heart and attempted to cleave it out.

_There, seeker. You must walk there._

“Why?” She gasped, and Leliana looked her way with barely concealed surprise.

_Because I must show myself to allay your fears. I will show your world my face._

“And let them think me possessed?” Cassandra squeezed her eyes shut, wondering how easily the flags carried here could be turned to spears, broken pieces of the temple becoming stones.

“They’re not afraid.” Cole whispered, suddenly standing next to her as if he had been there the whole time. Perhaps he had. “They’re waiting. They want to believe.”

Leliana’s back straightened, the practiced serenity on her face briefly undone. “We’ll walk there together, Cassandra.”

“You cannot martyr yourself for me.” The pull grew stronger with every passing second, aching beyond measure. “I won’t allow it.”

“I was martyred here already.” Somewhere on this desecrated floor, Cassandra knew it was true, wondered if Leliana could feel where her body had fallen, held onto life by a thread. “I saw Andraste’s ashes right before me, spoke with the ghosts of her disciples. Brona, Havard, Hessarian. You must walk with nothing but faith in your heart, Cassandra, and trust that it is enough.”

“Was it?” She asked softly.

The last thing she expected was a laugh, but it was a gentle sound, and Leliana’s smile all the brighter for it. “It has brought me here with you.”

“I’ll keep them away.” Cole chimed in, a strange haze spilling over his eyes. “So you have space to talk with the wanderer. The people will watch, but they won’t stray.”

“Thank you, Cole.” Leliana said, and drew in a deep breath.

Cassandra took the first step. Each one was easier than the last, but a massive weight was pressing down on her body, a thousand stares and doubts their own burden to carry. By the time her boots stopped short of the altar, she was out of breath, and without a second thought, Cassandra dropped to one knee, as if she was about to pray. Looking up at the empty altar, doing so suddenly didn’t seem like such a bad idea. Leliana was beside her then, and a hand found purchase on her shoulder, steadying them both.

_You have my apologies, Seeker. This will cause you pain._

Before Cassandra could open her mouth to answer, blue fire fell across her vision, and then it was drawn out in one final pull. A shuddering cloud of cerulean light took vague shape, the frame of the spirit, and her veins were ablaze with an agony so complete, it would have knocked her off her feet had she not already been kneeling. She could feel where every arrow had punctured now, how her flesh had barely survived the mending, and everything she could not to shout and buckle, breathing through the worst of it.

“Cassandra.” Leliana’s hand tensed against her shoulder.

“I’ll bear it.” There were shouts of surprise behind them from the procession, but the frenzy of sound turned to silent awe as the spirit’s empty face became that of Havard, Andraste’s First Disciple. “Maker’s breath.”

“It’s not him.” Leliana said immediately, mouth tensing into a tight line. “Not truly.”

“ _I have taken a form that those watching will know and understand. That they will not fear._ ” The spirit uttered, and its voice rang hollow, strange now that it was outside her head. “ _Do you see now, Seeker? I am no demon. I am Faith._ ”

“Faith.” She echoed the word without thinking, awash in disbelief. “Why…does it feel like I’ve just been impaled? Again?”

 _“Because I could not keep your soul bound to mortal flesh without sharing my own strength_.” Faith frowned, the lines of the expression harsh on its face. “ _Now only true death could sever us entirely. I apologize, Seeker, but your loss would have been a great undoing_.”

Cassandra’s eyes flickered up towards Leliana, who looked as if tears were about to break free. Rather than answer the tide of anger, the fear eating at the center of her stomach, Cassandra covered Leliana’s hand on her shoulder with one of her own, fingers squeezing tight enough to feel through gauntlet and glove.

“Now what?” She asked, focusing on Faith’s approximation of a face. “Now what do we do?”

“ _Ask me your questions, Seeker. Calm your heart. When that is done and I return to your body, there will be peace between us. Like before the Breach, you will not know my presence. You may live without fear of my discovery_.”

One dark brow arched. “Is it so simple?”

“ _In my experience, mortal affairs are never simple, but it is all that can be done_.” Faith said.

“Am I an abomination?” The question choked its way from Cassandra’s throat, fast as she could utter it. “How can I not be?”

“ _Do you fear being more than human_?” Its head tilted somewhat, mimicking curiosity. “ _That it brings you closer to the realm of gods and demons, to the Black City, your Maker’s light? You are not like Corypheus, Seeker. You are not a monster_.”

“Why do you say _my_  Maker?” Cassandra demanded, eyes narrowing. “Are you not of his creation?”

“ _All mortals have faith, be they elf or human, kossith or dwarf. There is a belief that carries them in the heart of danger, beyond the power of reason. I answer to them all, Seeker. For you, it is the Maker that echoes the strongest._ ” Then there was a smile, serene and open, before Faith’s stare fell upon Leliana.  _“Be not afraid. You will not burn in His sight while you remain by her side. That I can promise._ ”

She wanted to believe it. Everything within her, flesh and bone, blood and aching vein, wanted the words to be true. Cassandra felt tears rising to her own eyes, relief warring with doubt until they finally burst forth, and she wept. Leliana’s fingers curled up around hers, entwining together, and everything was clear again. The world was bright, so very bright, pure enough that it stung to look, but it was a pain worth carrying. Would that the Maker Himself moved to strike her down if she was wrong.

 _“I am not a maker of miracles. It is your strength that has carried you this far and will continue to do so, in the future to come_.” Faith clasped its hands together, as if in thought. “ _Do you intend to tell her, Seeker_?”

Had there been no connection to them, Cassandra might have feigned not knowing what the spirit spoke of, but its impassive gaze was knowing. It saw to her very center, past years of blood and secrets, oaths taken and broken. The tears began to dry on Cassandra’s face as she managed a smile, exhausted but genuine.

“Would you compel me to if I said no?” She asked.

“ _I admit, it is a temptation, but mortal relationships are somewhat beyond my ken_.” Havard’s visage began to fade and waver, becoming the blank slate of blue fire once more.  _“I will speak to your congregation now, Divine Victoria, and they will remember why this is a holy place._ ”

“Thank you.” Leliana whispered, and a bit of awe had crept into her voice as well.

Faith rose above the altar on wings that formed and fluttered like they were made from stained glass, cast in cobalt, azure, and indigo. It spread both arms wide, open and welcoming, voice booming with the force of a sacred song, carried by ten thousand tongues. “ _Children of the Maker, your belief has drawn me here. You have walked over a battlefield, over broken earth, spent blood and sweat in Andraste’s name. Your sacrifice will be honored, your champion restored._ ”

Leliana took a step back, hand falling from her shoulder, and Cassandra straightened up her spine. It was all she could do to keep looking forward, appearing just as enraptured, rather than looking back to the crowd. How many ‘miracles’ in the Chant had been wrought as such, casting a light into the future so faith would remain, the stories told again and again in times of loss? If it drove them all to do the right thing, was it enough? Did it make them real?

“ _As the First Disciple once gave his life for Andraste, so she has done so to protect your Divine. Let all wounds be healed, every poison cured, and your spirits renewed_.” Faith cast its hand downward, aligned with Cassandra’s chest. “ _Rise, champion. The Maker shall never forget as long as the faithful remember._ ”

The spirit became flame, returning its familiar warmth beneath her skin in a revitalizing rush. Cassandra found herself on her feet before she even thought to move, pain assuaged in an instant. She didn’t resist the feeling as it swept like healing magic over her skin, sealing all that remained broken and bruised, split and beginning to scar, before the fire vanished, snuffed out so completely it was startling. Turning just enough to meet Leliana’s gaze, Cassandra knew her eyes were wide, stunned but not alight.

 _I am not gone_ , a fading voice whispered inside her head,  _but we may not speak for some time while I recover my own strength_.

“I am sorry,” Cassandra whispered, “for not understanding.”

_Without your adamant nature, Seeker, I doubt we ever would have met. Think on Trials 1:14 in my absence, if it troubles you._

She frowned, trying to recall the verse. “I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Fade. For there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker’s Light, and nothing He has wrought shall be lost.”

Leliana closed the distance between them, and together they looked out to the procession. Most of the camp had fallen onto their knees, taken to prayer, but others were simply staring up at the sky, hope written on faces young and old that Cassandra hadn’t seen since long before the Breach.

“Do you feel His Light now?” Leliana asked, gentle and assuring.

“No,” Cassandra replied, but the answer brought a smile to her lips instead of a frown. She didn’t need to, not now. “Only yours.”


	7. Chapter 7

The pilgrims came in droves. From all corners of Thedas they trailed in, sprawling in camps with fires numerous as the stars, sending reeds of smoke spiraling into the sky. Leliana led more congregations in prayer than most Divines did in the first year of their reigns, quickly slipping beyond counting. Everywhere she walked people dropped to their knees, reaching to brush their hands against the hems of her robes, to beg her touch them, their eyes large and desperate and pleading, but most of all reverent.

The first time they had done it to Cassandra, she had stared at them in absolute shock. At first she stomached it, doing her best to ignore them, to pretend that she was walking down a path that wasn’t crowded with people all straining for a glimpse of her and the Most Holy. When a woman asked her to heal a sickly child however, she stumbled backwards, panicked.

“I can’t--” she choked. “I’m no miracle worker, I don’t--”

Seeing her flounder, Leliana stepped in. Placing one hand on the woman’s shoulder and another on the child’s forehead, she murmured, “Though I am flesh, Your Light is ever present / and those I have called, they remember / and they shall endure.”

Sinking to her knees, the woman gasped out the last lines of the Canticle of Trials, “I shall sing with them the Chant, and all will know / We are Yours, and none shall stand before us.”

“Visit my camp before the day ends,” Leliana said to her with a kind smile. “I will have one of our spirit healers tend to your child.”

“Thank you, Your Perfection.” The woman bowed over the child clutched in her arms, near tears. “ _Thank you_.”

Yet as they walked away, Cassandra remained silent and solemn at Leliana’s side until breaking out of earshot. “I cannot heal the sick. What is it they expect of me?”

Peering around them once they were completely out of sight, Leliana grasped Cassandra’s hand and grasped her fingers lightly. “We may not be healers, but we have the resources to help these people.”

“But what if it’s not enough,” Cassandra muttered.

Giving her hand a reassuring squeeze, Leliana answered. “Then we give until we have nothing left.”

Cassandra stared at her, and it was a moment of peace in the last few days of absolute chaos, hiding from everything behind a broken pillar at the Temple. Until one of Leliana’s guards cleared his throat and rounded the corner.

Still holding onto Cassandra’s hand, Leliana asked, “What is it, Captain?”

“More pilgrims, Your Perfection,” he answered, gripping the pommel of his sword. “From Denerim.”

_Alistair._

Seeing the look on her face, Cassandra drew her hand away. “With your leave,” she said, suddenly formal in the presence of others. When Leliana gave her a nod of assent, Cassandra strode off, slipping through the trees and ruins to avoid the ever-growing crowd.

While Leliana had been expecting word from the monarchs of Ferelden, she had never expected them to personally appear. The new Divine’s trip across the nations of Thedas had been cut summarily short, after all. While in most cases it would be seen as an international slight on the verge of disaster, the events at the Temple of Sacred Ashes had mitigated any fallout somewhat.

Whereas a member of the Orlesian court at Halamshiral might have played the fact that the Divine had fled to the Temple to rekindle a flame in the hearts of the faithful, Alistair was doing the exact opposite. His and Anora’s were among the first entourage to make the pilgrimage to the Temple after the events there just a few days previously.

He may have been trained as a Templar, but Alistair had never been the most devout Andrastian Leliana knew. For the longest time he thought she was insane, and at first she feared he only marched to the Temple with his retinue out of a sense of doubt, but he could not have sent a more clear message to the other nations.

Publically the King and Queen of Ferelden climbed atop the ruins, passing on foot through the ranks of the faithful to reach the site where so much had occurred, and there -- dressed as commoners -- they knelt to pray in silence.

If that wasn’t a staggering declaration of support, then Leliana didn’t know what was.

Afterwards Leliana took them aside to speak in private. The outside of her tent looked like the front of a military parade, what will all the royal and Andrastian guards posted in their gleaming armour and long swirling capes. Inside however, it felt remarkably less cramped.

“I must confess,” Leliana remarked, pouring each of them a cup of hot mulled wine to ward off the mountain chill. “I’m surprised you came.”

“It was Alistair’s idea,” Anora took the wine with a murmur of thanks, her lap draped with warm furs as she sat at the writing table.

Leliana’s eyebrows shot up, and she gave Alistair a slow incredulous glance.

“Oh, don’t look so shocked,” Alistair chastened, taking the cup she offered him. “I’ve managed to learn  _some_  things since coming to the throne.”

“Then I trust you understand the repercussions of your actions.” Leliana took a seat opposite Anora. She poured herself a cup of wine as well, but only held the bowl between her hands, the heat radiating into her palms. “You have made the first move, and now other nations will either follow suit or lash out accordingly. Your initiative is as dangerous as it is timely and appreciated.”

“You mean Orlais doesn’t like being second in line for alms from the Divine Victoria,” Anora replied with a dry smirk over the rim of her cup.

Leliana returned the smile delicately. “Among other things.”

Still standing, Alistair frowned into his wine, suddenly somber. “After all that we’ve been through -- together and apart -- I believe a time of faith is what’s needed to help rebuild this world.”

“You  _believe_?” Leliana parroted, teasing.

Alistair shook his head ruefully. “How could I not? I saw you die here, Leliana. Then the events of the Conclave. The Inquisitor. And now a Seeker of Truth accompanied by a vision of Havard rises through the Veil.”

For a moment he paused to sip contemplatively at the wine. “But regardless of my own personal beliefs, the wellbeing of my nation is my primary concern. Ferelden will stand with the Sunburst Throne in this time of peace.”

“However long that may last,” Anora added, sagely but not unkindly, though her brows knit together as she frowned thoughtfully at her husband. “Maker only knows how long the Inquisition’s presence will be required to maintain it.”

At that, both of them turned their attention to her, at once questioning and somewhat guarded.

Suddenly it felt very cold in her tent despite the coal-bearing brazier venting heat in the center of the space. Leliana wished for more than the thin red-streaked robes and a stole of gilded snowfleur skin to keep her warm.

If she was getting cold feet about politics now, then she was in the wrong profession.

“Rest assured,” she said calmly. “When necessary Ferelden will be among the deliberations as to the Inquisition’s fate.”

At least that seemed to appease them. When Leliana finally raised the wine to her lips, it tasted remarkably sweet. Briefly she wondered if Cole was still prowling about; she could not remember asking for honey, though it was not undesired.

Visibly more relaxed, Alistair asked jokingly, “And where is your fabled Right Hand? Or are we not important enough to warrant an audience from the Most Holy’s most holy champion?”

“Hardly,” Leliana replied. “After being hounded by so many pilgrims, she has taken to hiding if only to keep her sanity. But I shall fetch her.” Setting her wine down, Leliana rose to her feet, settling the stole more snugly across her shoulders. “Please, make yourself at home. I won’t be long.”

Leaving the two of them in her tent, Leliana stepped outside. She aimed a pointed look at one of her guards, who jerked his head to a nearby treeline along a wintry slope. Leliana eyed the incline before hiking up her hems with a rough sigh and setting off between the frost-laden branches.

Fresh, powdery snow crunched underfoot and more than once she nearly slipped, catching herself on a nearby tree trunk. She definitely wasn’t wearing the right shoes for this.

By the time the ground beneath her levelled, her shoulders were dusted with white, and her cheeks were tinged pink from cold and exertion. At last she came upon niveous glade, blanketed and serene. Near the center the snow had been trampled flat, and there Cassandra moved through a series of forms, slicing the air with her sword.

Pausing at the edge of the treeline, Leliana watched. Cassandra was flush with life. She seemed to brim with it, every sweep of her arms powerful yet controlled, the vigour in the patterns of her footwork, the mist of her breath shivering in the air. Among the pale trees she seemed to glitter, her armour catching the soft light reflected on all sides and holding it fast.

Over the course of the last few days, it had often struck Leliana that she had almost lost this, had almost lost her. But now it seemed more genuine than ever, the thought striking deep in her chest and lodging itself there like a stone.

“Still spying?” Cassandra said suddenly, without turning around. “You realise your nightingale years are over, don’t you?”

Leliana didn’t realise she was holding her breath until it all rushed from her lungs, leaving an ache behind as biting as the cold. “I know that now,” she breathed, stepping into the clearing.

Still not looking at her, Cassandra’s movements slowed to a poised halt. She cocked her head, dark hair gleaming with flakes of white. “You are so quiet. You always were. Perhaps I should have known long ago what I was. Even then I could sense your approach. I thought everyone else must just be deaf.”

Leliana stopped just a stride behind her, gaze tracing the frosty sunburst lines of her old cuirass. “And now?” she pressed, voice a near-inaudible whisper.

At last Cassandra turned, sheathing her sword in one smooth practiced motion. “Now it’s as if --” She swallowed past the words, and her eyes burned, not with veilfire, but with all too human intensity. Reaching up, she gently pushed back Leliana’s clerical cowl and ran fingers through her coppery hair. “Now it’s as if you are a beacon. As if you could be anywhere in the world, or even across the Veil itself, and I could find you.”

Leliana pushed up onto her toes and their mouths met, soft and quiet in the fresh-fallen snow, warmth passing between them. Here the world seemed to melt away until there was only this -- a kiss shared between them, tasting like honey in mulled wine.

When Leliana pulled away, Cassandra swayed forward, chasing that contact. “We should go,” Leliana murmured as Cassandra nuzzled her cheek, hands stroking at the bare base of her neck. “The King and Queen of Ferelden await an audience with you.”

“Then they can wait a moment longer.”

With a tender smile, Cassandra pulled them together for another kiss, and Leliana went willingly.

Politics could wait, for now.

\--

It was in the deepest heart of night that their meeting finally broke apart, the fell combination of too much wine and speech finally bringing fatigue past the bounds of propriety. Cassandra acquiesced when Leliana promised Anora and Alistair that they would share breakfast, and followed her past their bargaining table and along the path to the tent with their bed, secreted away from all other prying eyes. Leliana was still in the middle of performing a careful purge of her staff to ensure none of them still had connections to Marjolaine, but for the most part, it seemed the Chantry was accepting the change in their dynamic.

Not publicly, of course, but Cassandra was sure she knew the source of Mother Gisele’s smile whenever it was angled her way.

If nothing else, it was easier to sleep with Leliana by her side, regardless of what else could spring forth as a result. Every night since Faith’s appearance at the Temple, they had talked until the fingers of dawn stretched over the horizon, filling in all the spaces of old hesitation. There was more to discover, more to share, but until the faithful dispersed back across Thedas, Cassandra stole what comfort she could, and a great deal of it was within Leliana’s arms.

Tonight, Leliana had fallen asleep first, having indulged in enough honeyed spirits to give any stout soldier a hangover, and Cassandra lay silent in the shadows, watching the rise and fall of her chest. Here, without the trappings of the Divine around her, without a hundred tasks demanding her attention and pulling lines across an already furrowed brow, Leliana looked as young as she had when they first met. Without question the two of them were older -- to the point Cassandra wanted to grumble about it under her breath -- but there was still a measure of peace to be afforded.

And Faith was quiet. So very quiet.

Sitting up and casting the blanket covering her aside, Cassandra’s legs swung over the edge of the bed, feeling cool earth even through the floor of the tent when her feet made contact. She reached over to the small chest of drawers that made up Leliana’s personal vanity, carefully searching it until coming up with a mirror. It was barely the size of her hand, but the glass was polished to a perfect sheen, and the faint break of starlight was enough to see a reflection by.

“Do you slumber still?” Cassandra asked, soft as she possibly could.

Silence was all that answered for a moment before pinpricks of blue light ignited in her eyes, shining in the mirror. _I did not expect you to call for me, Seeker._

Fair enough, considering her previous attitude towards its presence. “I...suppose I wanted to be sure nothing had changed.”

_Much has already changed. However, I think it is toward the betterment of things._

“We’re being treated like the second coming of Andraste.” She murmured, frowning a bit. “It’s disarming.”

_Mortals need icons and heroes, Seeker. It gives them a bridge between the lives they live every day and something greater than themselves._

Cassandra quieted before her brows tensed together.“Faith?”

_Yes?_

“I’d prefer you call me Champion instead of Seeker.” Her eyes flickered back towards the bed, where Leliana still slumbered. “It seems only fitting.”

_As you wish. Perhaps there is a new future for your order as well, when the time comes._

“I believe so.” Cassandra said, and meant it. “I’ll leave you to rest now. Thank you.”

_By your leave, Champion. The sun will rise soon._

Then the light was gone, from her eyes and the mirror alike. Cassandra returned it to the drawer and slid it shut without a sound, retreating under the blanket and back to the warmth there. As soon as she closed her eyes, Leliana shifted, turning until she was pressed against Cassandra’s back, breath a whisper against the nape of her neck. Before she surrendered to sleep, Leliana’s hand found hers, and no nightmares laid claim, serving as each other’s shields as they were meant to be.


End file.
